


Keys to the Heart

by GoeticDisciple



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-01 16:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2780702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoeticDisciple/pseuds/GoeticDisciple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A woman with an uncertain future finds herself in an unlikely alliance with Quinlan and Gus. </p><p>5/18/2016 - To readers new and old, this fic may be dead. I work 60-80 hrs a week now and have very little time or muse left at end of the day. Feel free to bookmark and check back every so often. I appreciate the continued interest and pleas for updates but at this moment there is nothing pending.</p><p>I do not own The Strain nor any of the characters from the show featured in this work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1: Ignition - Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our hero manages to escape her vampire infested workplace, steal a nice SUV and and learns to begin how to survive in the new world.

When the world ended, my biggest concern wasn’t so much the vampires as was the loss of my medical team.

I’d just gotten off the phone with my doctor when the ruckus started. Peeking out of my office, I saw a man at the far end of the hall brutally attack another employee, slamming his victim up against the wall with enough force to cave in the drywall. The attacker was snarling. The inhuman tone of it struck a primitive chord of terror chord in me. I’d ducked back inside, locked the door and picked up the phone to call security. 

Dead line. 

Feet pounded down the hall towards the attacking man, angry voices rising. When the hollering turned to shrieks, I’d turned out my lights, double checked the lock on the door and went for my cell. A dial tone took forever to get, and then when my call did connect with security, all I got was a busy signal.

Nobody gets a busy signal any more unless cell lines are jammed. Jammed cell lines mean many people trying to make calls. Many people trying to call means some type of disaster.

That had been a day ago. Night had come, bringing bedlam outside my door. Tucked in my little ten by ten windowless room, I’d held my breath while a great clattering altercation took place in the open floor outside. Things that breathed wetly kept trying my door, carefully, cleverly. I’d always joked about the “Disaster shelter” signage my interior office sported, and it was during the long night that I understood it was no joke. The heavy, lockable door was the only thing which had kept them out.

I’d texted my sig other. _Hey. Trapped @ work. No idea WTF is going on. Crazy shit. U ok?_

Then a while later: _I love u._

And received nothing in return.

I refused to allow myself to imagine… anything.

The office intranet had still worked at that point; muting my machine, I read the posts of others similarly trapped, begging for help, begging for information. It was unclear if the site had been attacked or if some bizarre group psychosis had turned half the staff into murdering machines. 

Someone had posted a picture of the site’s cafe. The scene bore a shocking resemblance to the photos from the Nyamata Church after the Rwandan genocide. I could not believe my eyes.

I did not post back.

Towards morning, I slept a little and was awakened by more wet respirations. Labored, inconstant; the sound reminded me of the patients in the acute ward of the hospital, the ones who were circling the drain. An odd clicking interrupted every other breath, faintly insectile. This time, the door handle was tried with some force. I prayed the thumping of my heart wasn’t audible.

When it was gone, I checked my cell again, hiding the light with my body. Nothing.

I forced myself to be very still and calm.

As with any bizarre event in life, when one is going through it, it seems almost mundane, normal. I’d gotten up that morning, dressed, unplugged the car, driven to work in my typical F1-driver fashion, screamed at a hapless old lady who nearly swerved into me, hummed into the parking garage while already on the first of ten conference calls of the day, marched into my office, downloaded my email, then walked out my door to see a murder taking place. Now, under my desk, staring at crumbs the cleaner had missed the night before, I felt the same sense of unreality as on the day four years ago when I’d received the worst news of my life. And yet, even after that horrible day, life had still gone on in all its unstoppable normality: the sun rose, initiatives were planned, people hired, my SO needed advice on how to cook the chicken and I’d continued to kick and scream as always, just sometimes with not as much gusto as before. This was no different. The world as I knew it - the noisy, OCD world of corporate had just come to a grinding halt, and here I was, staring at crumbs and feeling irritated.

It was morning now and bright outside. That much I could ascertain from the light seeping under my door.

I took out my cell phone and checked for messages: still none. Texted my SO: _Where r u?_

The digital silence was deafening.

I crept to the door, pressing my ear against the cold surface. All was still. Very carefully, I turned the handle and peered out: several bodies lay half-way down the hall, heavy in their stillness. A swipe of blood arced along the white wall.

Then: somewhere outside, a siren. The howling grew louder and louder until I could tell it was in the building’s lot. Several vehicles, it seemed. The wailing crescendoed, then cut off abruptly. I hesitated in the doorway, listening.

Hoping.

Waiting.

_Pop! Pop! POP POP POP POP!_

It was difficult to shut the door quietly.

The shooting went on for a long time.

“The fuck is happening?” I whispered to myself.

My cell vibrated. I had to stuff my knuckles in my mouth to keep from screaming.

It read: _Dear WalMart Shopper, your purchase last month won a $1000 Walmart gift card, go to…_

“Fucking spam,” I hissed, then froze to the spot when a nearby screech seemed to answer me. It sounded like it had come from down the hall, where those bodies lay. Maybe farther away. I couldn’t tell. The hollow ceiling conducted sounds across the whole building, warping distance.

I couldn’t stay in my office forever. No food beyond a box of stale granola bars in the credenza. No water. No facilities. There had been sirens and shooting, so that meant somewhere, there were still people. I just needed to get to them.

I counted to thirty and dared the door again. Bodies: check. Blood swath: check. Screeching thing: no sign. Sun slatted through the blinds, many of which had been mangled in whatever melee had taken place out on the floor last night. There was something reassuring about the bright light. My gut told me if I could just get out into it, I would be safe.

With careful, quiet movements, I emptied the stale granola bars into my jacket pockets and swapped out my heels for the running shoes I kept in a drawer. Both seemed like good ideas. As I tied my laces, I plotted escape options. There were two.

One would force me down the narrow hall, over the bodies and into the central pillar of the building where the main stairs and elevators were. Once I reached the first floor, I’d have to cross an open, polished expanse of reception area to reach the front doors. The other option was a service stairway that opened directly across from my office. It was three stories of what was most likely dark stairwell, currently housing god only knew what. The advantage was it opened into a service hallway which contained several direct, emergency exits out to the rear parking lot. Exits to the sanctuary of the sun.

Brighter, longer and more exposed or darker, shorter and unknown?

Another screech floated down the hall. I crept to the door. A shambling figure crossed the hall past the bodies, heading towards the central stairway area.

Service stairs it was.

There hasn’t been a crashbar made in the history of mankind that is quiet. Despite leaning my weight against it with great care, the damn thing still clunked loudly as the door opened. A growl came from down the hall; the figure had heard me.

I threw myself into the breach.

The stairwell was filled with pale light. Someone had left the roof access door open. Thanking my lucky stars, I hurried down the stairs, doing my best to keep my footsteps soft. There were still plenty of shadows, increasing the lower I went. I knew I had only seconds to clear the stairs before the thing from my floor came in after me.

I heard the crashbar clang when I was midway down. A surge of panic like nothing I’d ever felt blasted through me and instantly I realized why everyone in horror movies always trips and falls on nothing when running away. My ankles seized. I staggered down several steps, caught myself on the handrail and looked up.

A flash of movement above and a long, low, clicking growl.

I think I swore. My pursuer let out a squeal and came pounding after me. 

At the base of the stairs was another body. The light was poor there, but enough to let me see that it was still twitching, as if trying to get up. I channeled my childhood and leapt from the third stair, sailing over it, landing hard but unharmed. Hit the crash in front of me, committing to running as fast as possible to the exit door which I knew to be straight ahead. I hoped my explosive arrival would stun anything waiting near the door into momentary hesitation. 

Behind me, a thud: my attacker had also jumped.

The sign over the exit door hollered in red bold letters: “Emergency Exit Only. Alarms will sound.”

“Good,” I panted, and crashed out into the sun.

No alarms, but a squeal and a hiss. So close! I heard the door bang shut and risked a glance behind.

Nothing.

It hadn’t followed me out.

I had made it. 

Far off, I could hear sirens again. For a few moments, I crouched with my shoulder against the stone retaining wall, panting from the adrenaline and marveling I was unscathed.

There was a body in the landscaping off to my right. 

I saw another one pitched over the hood of a car stopped crossways in one of the lanes.

Then a third, near the corner of the building, a lump of practical office separates fluttering in the breeze.

I looked but did not look. My brain refused to fully register the enormity of what I was seeing. A shroud of numbness settled over me. A bird flew by with a rattle of feathers, the only thing moving other than me and the fluttering clothes of the downed woman at the corner.

When the police car blasted by on the cross street, I nearly pissed myself. It came to a screeching halt at the corner, hesitating. That, in and of itself, seemed a very poor sign. I could see the cop behind the wheel turning his head this way and that, as if trying to decide which way led to safety. Finally, he picked left and went roaring off, not using lights or siren but every ounce of power that cruiser had to spirit himself away at a very high speed.

“Shit,” I heard myself say. The sound of my own voice was reassuring. It was a simple thing but it made me feel better, more able. “Shit.”

I had to get to my car and find help.

The Tesla was in the parking garage which stood at the end of the shallow front visitor lot. Up on the fifth level, my typical spot was an ideal place to both plug it in and avoid careless door-dingers. Few were motivated enough to park top level, so far away from the buildings. Given the current circumstances, it felt like I’d parked it in motherfucking Siberia. On a good day, it took me exactly six minutes to walk from my office to the car. Today was not a good day.

I was in the back lot. It was hard to leave the shelter of the retaining wall. I found myself dawdling, and even pulled my phone out of my pocket to check it. The pang of woe I felt when I saw the text message icon remained alert-free was an icepick in my heart. A squirrel came down a nearby tree, little claws loud in this suddenly very quiet world. The noise sprang me into action: I put the phone away, took two deep breaths, and started walking towards the corner, with its waiting corpse.

As I neared the edge of the building, I saw the familiar, shiny red and silver of a fire truck. Behind it was an ambulance, and behind that, a police car. The vehicles were still.

As were the dozen dead bodies scattered on the ground.

“Oh Jesus.” Saying it out loud was necessary. To make it real.

The woman in the practical office separates had been savaged; her limbs were heavily lacerated and her skull was crushed. Pink brain matter fanned out across the walkway like some bizarre sea coral. Nausea roared up; I dragged my eyes away from the gore and insisted my leaden legs step over her. After a moment my nerves complied with my brain’s demand.

To get to the front lot I would need to walk amongst the corpses, or go the long way around, along the edge of the lot. Exposure versus expediency again.

They’re just dead, you idiot, I told myself. Walk through them. It will be faster.

Shaking, I moved forward.

I’d known these people. I’d sat with them in meetings, had lunch, shared victories and failures, frustrations and encouragements. Some I liked, some I did not. There was Kaylee, who had just had a baby. A gunshot had blown off the back of her head. Her formerly pretty face was frozen in what appeared to be a snarl, her outstretched hands curled into claws. I wondered what would happen to the baby.

I was stepping over Ajay, whose dead eyes were darker than I remembered.

Now Marty lay before me, as bloated and ugly in death as he’d been in life. A sneer curled my lip. Marty had had his coming. Years ago, he’d tried to throw me under the bus for an accounting fuck up. He hadn’t been successful and I’d made sure it had come back on him like a razor-edged boomerang. We’d hated each other ever since. 

“I win, you dick,” I said to his corpse.

He had been shot multiple times. His mouth was open and his - tongue? - protruded slightly from his parted lips. The crinkled, brownish mass didn’t look right.

I thought I saw it twitch.

I hurried around him.

The firemen were nowhere to be seen. Neither were the cops. All they had left behind was their modern reenactment of gunfire at the O.K. Corral. A backboard lay against a picnic table, its EMT owner splayed like a rag doll next to it. His hands were in his lap, palms up, blackened as if he’d been in a fire.

Is this real? I thought. Or did I pass out and get taken to the hospital, where all this is some weird fever dream? 

The car the car the car get to the car.

When I got to it, I could go… somewhere? Where had that cop been going in such a hurry? To safety, I surmised. It came to me: the local police annex was less than three miles away – a short drive if there wasn’t chaos on the road.

Starting point.

I hustled the rest of the way around the building to enter the front lot. Still no movement. Even the faint sirens I’d heard earlier had stopped. The sun blazed down, blissfully unaware it was shining on some unknowable disaster.

The silence was thunderous.

Where _is_ everyone?

It was then I spotted the movement in the parking garage. There. There they are. People. Oh thank God. Relief flooded through me, but only for a moment.

The figures were aimless. Their silhouettes jerked about in pained parodies of ambulation. In the dim shade of the lower level at this distance, I could see no detail, but there was something intensely alien and frightening about the way they moved.

Zombies? my brain offered up. They were popular, after all.

“Shut up,” I told it miserably. 

There was no way I would brave those milling figures to get to my car.

I stood forlorn in the sun, utterly alone in my numbness and for one of the first times in my adult life, paralyzed with indecision. The garage was not an option. Going back into the building didn’t sound too hot, either. I could walk to one of the nearby companies and see if anyone there could help me but my instincts said no.

I had learned long ago to always listen to my instincts.

It was then I saw the keys.

They lay on the blacktop, gleaming. A pink ribbon keychain contained several keys, plus the black fob for an Infiniti-brand car. I scooped them up and pressed the unlock button. 

A clunk up ahead and to my left. White QX80 SUV. The big model. Luxury tank.

Sirens came blasting, and this time, I counted five police cruisers on full blaze as they tore by the site. One of the cars was badly damaged, rear bumper flapping. The figures in the garage froze still until the cars passed, then resumed their predatory circulation.

I made a quiet promise that once all this crazy bullshit was over I would return the SUV to its rightful owner… but right now I was making an executive decision that I needed this vehicle. _Mea culpa,_ so sorry, but serious shit’s going down right now.

I took one step towards the car, then another. Stopped. The back of my neck was crawling and it wasn’t from the sun; that felt good after the cold office building.

Be cautious, I told myself. Carefully, I knelt down and looked under the vehicle. My stomach dropped.

A woman was face down under the SUV. She was flattened, frog-like, up by the front, under the engine. Her bare arms were pasty-white and there was blood all over her twitching hands. I would have thought her dead if it hadn’t been for those restless fingers. The crown of her head faced me, hair matted with more blood. 

“Hello?” I called out.

No response. 

“Hey,” I said, a little louder.

The woman’s body convulsed and she inhaled sharply, making a very similar wet sound to what I had heard outside my door. Her head swiveled up on some invisible, greasy ball joint, eyes fixing on me. They were dark. All the way dark. There was no intelligence in them, only the promise of death.

“Oh fuck me,” I said, scrambling backwards.

I’d recognized the woman. She was not someone I knew well, but well enough to know she’d been kindly. She had just returned from work after her second battle with breast cancer, and recently, we’d chatted a little, trading battle stories. She’d told me that her upper body mobility was still limited from several surgeries.

She began to crawl towards me. Definitely not having any mobility issues now. And no longer kindly.

I like to think of myself as a practical person, sometimes brutally so. It has served me well in life, although some of my colleagues (Marty, in particular) would characterize me as cold. Backing up, I stabbed at the button on the key fob to open the back hatch. It popped and raised up on its pneumatics. Without hesitation, I ran forward, towards the thing starting to emerge, and launched myself into the back of the SUV to land amongst reusable shopping bags and two very painful bulk-packs of bottled water. I grabbed the plastic handle just as her head was coming over the bumper on that freaky, ball-bearing neck, and slammed down the hatch.

Locked myself in. 

The gurgling thing found itself suddenly in the sunlight. It began to shriek wetly and smoke. Flailing arms beat a rapid tattoo against the tailgate then with a thud, it threw itself to the ground and disappeared back under the car, into the safety of the shade.

I was starting to get an idea of what had happened.

It banged around under the car while I crawled over the seats to get to the wheel. The gas gauge read “Full”. With a healthy V8 roar, the SUV came to life when I pushed the starter button.

From below, an angry shriek and the sound of fists hammering on the undercarriage.

“Time to GTFO,” I announced to no one in particular.

With a grunt, I slammed the vehicle in reverse, cut the wheel to the right and and ran her over. The thump was rewarding. Slammed it into drive, ran her over again. I felt more than heard the splat as her head exploded under a tire. The large vehicle easily cleared the the curb. I gunned it and left my Tesla and the carnage at the office behind without nary a glance in the rearview mirror.

I really wasn’t kidding when I mentioned I was practical.


	2. Part 1: Ignition - Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our fast driving hero adjusts to the new world and her behavior gets the attention of some possibly nefarious forces.

I was really good at two things in life.

First: I could drive. Like a boss. Put me behind the wheel of anything and I owned it. My youth had been spent hauling down country roads in any number of crappy pickup trucks and rusting muscle cars. At sixteen, my Skoal-spitting boyfriend had taught me how to blow donuts. I’d taken much more to that than blowing him, and had quickly left him in the dust, both on the road and in the relationship department.

The loves of my life were an endless procession of cars. The first had been a ’69 Road Runner, a purple, smoke-belching behemoth which I’d mostly wrecked after an over enthusiastic cornering maneuver. After that, a beat-up Trans-Am which had been quickly traded out for a Nissan 240SX. I’d learned how to drift in the 240 while learning the dog-eat-dog business world was a lot harder to negotiate than I’d been led to believe. Some days the only way I could stay sane was to head to the local track and take the car sideways around corners until all that mattered were clutch, gas, the screaming engine and the sweat rolling down my temples.

Behind the wheel, I was in control. I could do no wrong. I found vast peace in the moment when the back end tries to come around to the front. Eventually, I learned to take the zen of oversteering to the office, but in truth, I never felt one hundred percent comfortable around people. People betrayed. Cars did not.

Second: I was _great_ at killing vampires.

Maybe it was because I knew I had little to lose. Although at the start I wasn’t completely sure what had happened, what I was sure about was that the treatment plan scheduled for next month was off the books. Part of me was glad. I was in no rush to frog up from the steroids or watch my hair fall out. To become alien, even if only temporarily. I would make a terrible meal. The irony was not lost on me.

I killed the vampires with furious hatred.

Because they reminded me of myself.

My main weapon was a Vietnam-era machete stolen from an antique store. Its notched edge was eighteen razor inches perfect for slicing through cartilaginous vampire flesh. I’d fashioned a guard out of utility tape and cardboard to keep blood and worms away from my hand.

For longer range combat, I carried a 9mm pistol. It had come to me on my first day of survival, when I had visited the police annex near my work. When I got there, the building had been on fire. Flames belched out of the windows in chrysanthemum blooms of orange and yellow. The patrol car I’d seen with the hanging bumper was nose-deep in the front, completely engulfed. Silhouetted inside was the crisping outline of the driver.

I would never forget the face of the cop who had been turned minutes before I’d arrived. He was lying on his back in the parking lot, writhing. Blood was bubbling from his rent throat and seeping through his fingers. His struggling turned to twitching as I’d approached. His gun lay on the pavement a few feet from his quivering legs.

I’d pulled up, unsure of what to do. As I was rolling down the window to get a better look, the side door burst open and another policeman came staggering out in a cloud of black smoke, clutching at his throat. Shrieks and squeals were audible over the roar of the flames. More of them, anxious to get out.

Small things were wriggling under the skin of the struggling cop. Worms. His pleading, confused eyes held mine for a moment and I saw in them the horror of his fate.

I’d picked up the gun. Got back in the car. Took off.

It was on the first night I figured out they weren’t psychos or zombies but vampires.

I’d been edging the SUV along the road, attempting to circumvent a wreck to get back to my house. Every way I’d tried had been blocked by some disaster of cars. This one seemed surmountable, at least until two figures had hurtled out of the underbrush at me, snarling loudly. Half in the soft shoulder, with a fairly deep ditch to my right, I didn’t dare gun it, lest the heavy SUV spin around and moor itself.

One of the attackers ran straight into the grille of the car, frantic hands clawing in an effort to scrabble onto the hood. He drew in his shoulders, opened his mouth and let fly at the windshield a purplish-brown, fleshy protuberance. The end of it was split into two halves. It hit the glass with a wet slap and stuck. Each muscular flap terminated in a hollow fang. A moist orifice quivered where the two halves came together. It sucked at the glass for a moment and was then withdrawn.

The other then flattened herself against the driver’s side window, mashing her face upon the glass. Blood glazed her chin and misshapen throat. Her torn sweater was sodden with gore. In her red eyes, I saw a vacant, animal hunger. Her hair appeared to be falling out.

I realized I was being beset upon by two hungry monsters who would do just about anything to get at me and my blood.

I’d reversed the SUV with care and even in doing that nearly hung it up in the ditch. The QX was big and powerful, but it was not agile nor particularly easy to control in rough conditions. The vampire on the hood slid off while the one on the door clung tenaciously. Looking over my shoulder, I swung around as fast as I could. A thud told me I’d shaken the one on the door free, while a _THWACK_ told me the other had struck again with its feeding apparatus.

Driving away, I’d felt sick. After a while, the sick feeling turned to anger.

The anger stayed.

The town where I’d worked had been decimated. Most of the population seemed to have vanished in the space of two days. I’d seen a few other cars during the day but was afraid to approach the occupants. They seemed to feel the same, avoiding me, speeding off as soon as they saw movement.

Power, cell service and internet still worked, albeit intermittently. The problem was no one I called would pick up. Voicemails, texts: into the uncaring ether. Occasionally, I could get an internet connection. The news pages spoke of some riots, civil unrest, all stemming from nearby New York City. Don’t panic, was the byline. Stay calm. It’s under control. Let the authorities handle it.

My phone battery died at the end of day two.

I found some plywood scraps in a yard and fashioned shields with which to cover the windows at night.

I made my first face-to-face kill on day three. It took me seven shots to take it down.

That night, I’d broken in to the antique store and found the machete plus additional ammo.

On day four, the next one went down after two shots and a chop from the machete. Desperate for food, I’d risked entering a supermarket. Even though it was during the day, the vampire huddled under the tumbled pile of cereal boxes had been awake. I think it had only just fully turned; its jerky movements had made it unable to grab at me and its nascent stinger had had no reach. I’d popped it twice in the torso then stepped in and swung, taking off the top of its head.

Worms wriggled in the white, oily blood spilling out across the checkerboard floor.

As I shook the blood off the machete blade, something in my head snapped.

This was it.

This was the end of world.

But despite that dreadful revelation, I wasn’t quite ready to pack it in just yet.

I established a fairly solid pattern of pistol – machete – machete. When the bullets ran low, it was all machete – machete – machete. My days were spent scavenging, killing sleeping vampires, looking for shelter, killing awake vampires, sleeping, then starting over again.

 _Wash, rinse, repeat,_ we’d used to say at the office.

On day nine, my shadow stretched out long behind me as I approached the abandoned supermarket. I was hoping there was still some unplundered bread, and maybe peanut butter and box juice. My clothes were now loose and filthy.

Soon it would be time to snug my SUV up against a wall to batten down the hatches for the night. I’d had a hard time getting going today, slow from fatigue, and my raid was timed dangerously late. I would need to hurry.

The back of my neck was crawling. I rubbed it, grimacing.

Like I was being watched.

Machete in one hand, pistol in the other, I stepped through the broken window and into the store.

No tell tale sonorous respirations came from within; only the whisper of the breeze and the crunching of glass under my feet. The provisions on the shelves were even less than two days prior. I was clearly not the only one seeking food.

My alert level went up another notch.

Towards the back, a faint scent struck my nose, incongruous in a world where the most common smells now were rotting bodies and fire smoke. Men’s cologne. Not strong, just a trail of tan essence left in the wake of a previous visitor. I eased the safety off my pistol and swung the machete around in a loose circle. I wanted to appear an unpleasant target, more trouble than I would be worth, to any spying eyes that might be looking.

I wasn't sure how much longer this farce I was endeavoring in was going to last. Every night there were more vampires. It was becoming harder and harder to find a place to sleep that seemed even remotely safe. Last night, I’d squeezed the QX in between two half-crashed semis at a truck stop, leaving mere inches between the trucks cabs and its now scarred, white exterior. With the plywood shields up over the windshield and back window, the position had seemed secure until I heard the pack of them outside, three or four near the back, hitching and barking and testing the rear door handle with their noisy, clawed hands. They could hear my heart beat, I realized, and maybe even smell me. After a while, something had drawn them away, but the lesson remained: soon, I would no longer be safe in the SUV, no matter how I tried to secure it. They would come _en masse,_ break the windows, pull the doors off by the hinges, and drink me to a husk.

I’d wanted to shout miserably at them, “Can’t you tell I’m spoiled meat?”

I grabbed three loaves of rye bread (figures everyone would leave that shit for last), a jar of jam and some generic nut butter which had rolled under a shelf. There was no juice to be found, so I settled for a two-liter of root beer. Loaded up, I made quick business in getting out of the store and heading back to where I’d left the QX.

There was a black Hummer parked across the street.

It hadn’t been there before.

I could hear its engine ticking.

And it was clean.

I didn’t dare stop. If they were assholes - and I was pretty sure they were, given their choice of vehicle - I might only have seconds to dump my finds and escape.

It was now full evening. The automatic streetlights were coming on. They illuminated the Hummer’s chromed grille, rims and wheel wells. _Definitely_ assholes. The windows were heavily blacked out, obscuring my view of any occupants within.

I threw my stuff in the back seat, glancing over my shoulder, anxious. Every hair on my body was alive with dread; I felt threat not only from the Hummer but from off to my left, where the supermarket connected with the strip mall. My eyes settled on the slit of dark alley. Within that darkness there seemed to be something else, something far worse than what the falling evening and that chromed-up, blacked out Hummer promised.

A chill shot down my spine.

I didn’t care that my shrieking tires announced my departure to most of the still-living and recently dead residents of the county. There had been scrutiny in that shadowed alley, and it was time to get as away as fast as possible.

 

_______________________________________________

 

Across the street from the Hummer, in the darkness a pair of red, glinting eyes narrowed to slits. Observing the woman who observed them. She shoved her stolen food into the back of what was most likely a stolen vehicle, looking over her shoulder constantly at the Hummer. Her frown of consternation was easy to see against the paleness of her face. At one point, her eyes drifted over towards the alley, unseeing but sensing. Noticing them. Noticing _him._

She slammed the side door, hopped in behind the wheel, and left the lot in a howl of screeching tire smoke.

He stepped out of the security of the shadows, a similar frown on his own bone-white face. The driver of the Hummer saw him appear and fired up. In a few seconds, he was in the front passenger seat and they were heading back to base. His dour expression did not lift as they hurtled down the dark highway.

He was wondering. About her.

 

_________________________________________________

 

I cried that night, for the first time since it happened.

I’d found shelter in a nearby neighborhood after bolting, guts crawling, from the market. A stand-alone garage had been left open and empty. I was now securely locked in, huddled in the dark under a blanket in the back seat. My belly was full of stale bread and sugar. I should have been happy.

Instead, I was exhausted. Lack of sleep, poor nutrition, dehydration and my illness made me limp and weak. Had a vampire approached, I doubted I would have been able to defend myself.

I was alone. My now-useless phone had never beeped with a reassuring text that my SO had survived. In fact, not a single friend had reached out to me or responded, before the world had gone offline. It had been almost two weeks since I’d spoken to another living human being.

I wanted to stop.

But I didn’t know how.

All my life, I’d pushed forward, no matter what the news. Even the day I’d gotten my diagnosis, I’d gone to work, sniffling at my desk and lying, saying it was allergies. Quitting just wasn’t an option. I was a perpetual motion machine, an ever-swimming shark. If one kept moving, kept progressing, kept on with the sunrise and the sunset, somehow everything would turn out okay. What was impossible yesterday would seem simple today.

I might be good at killing vampires but that didn’t make things okay.

My weeping was silent and copious. I wanted to go home. I couldn’t even do that.

To my shock, I realized I missed people. I missed my SO and my team and my colleagues. I would have even settled for some unpleasant repartee with Marty had I been given the option.

In that dark garage, I fessed up to myself: I didn’t know what to do.

I was terrified. I was lost.

 

______________________________

 

I rested for two days. I choked back every last slice of that goddamned disgusting bread. Licked the jars of jam and peanut butter clean. Burned through all the root beer and the rest of my bottled water. Slept. Slept some more. The calories and security did me wonders; I felt rejuvenated and had a renewed will to survive. All of it put a keen edge on my attack.

Tonight, I was back at the market for one last scrounge before deciding on my next move. It was time to stop driving around in circles and hiding. I’d parked the SUV in the side lot and was heading towards the Dumpsters, figuring there might be some expired dry-goods still inside them. As I edged past a few abandoned cars, I spied two vamps feeding on a woman. I was irritated as two always heralded more. The clock was ticking.

I took the closer one’s head off cleanly at the shoulders, white blood spraying out across the rough brick of the market wall. Its victim, not quite dead yet, tracked me with her eyes and expelled a squealing breath. The second vampire swung around, alerted to my location by the woman’s gaze. I swung hard and caught it on the shoulder, spinning it about but by no means killing. With a snarl, it stopped itself mid-spin and faced me in a tripod stance, one arm dangling and useless. The body drew up and in, and I stepped back to widen the distance between me and the deadly stinger.

My heels came up short against a pile of boxes and I pitched forward just as the stinger launched. I felt the breeze of it pass by my face, missing by a fraction of an inch. With a grunt, I went down on one knee, tossed the machete to my left hand and backswung, catching the stinger on the rebound. Twelve inches of severed, pulsing flesh went flying. The vampire gargled and clutched at the gouting end.

With a chop, I finished the wounded creature, then dispatched the still-living woman. She was as good as dead, anyway.

And that’s when I felt the barrel of a gun press against the back of my head.

“Easy, easy now,” said a male, Latino voice. “Relax.”

I froze. Shadows on the wall in front of me: mine and whomever’s this was, plus three others, standing off to the left. A whiff of familiar men's cologne slipped across my nose. I cursed my decision to return.

“You put that machete down now.”

I complied.

“What other weapons you got?”

I held up my hands. “Gun.” I left out the part about the small knife taped to my forearm.

Another male voice, soft and stern: “Search her well. She’s got more than that.”

The choking dread I’d felt last time settled on me hard. I was patted down roughly and thoroughly. It took them maybe ten seconds to find the hidden weapon.

First Voice said, “You a liar, yo.”

“Yo, indeed I am,” I mocked. I wasn’t about to grovel. If they had a bad end in for me then so be it. I wouldn’t go whimpering like some stray dog; I would go punching and screaming and kicking and make a mess of it. I'd attract every fucking vampire within a five mile radius and then they'd be sorry. My eyes swept the length of the building, looking for movement, knowing it was coming, just not when. “You fucking assholes better decide what it is you’re going to do, because this place is going to be overrun in a minute.”

“We know.” Second Voice that time. Odd. Like two voices, overlapping each other. Fear settled high up in my throat, smothering. I thought of darkness within darkness.

I heard a vehicle pull around the corner of the building. Headlights blared down on my back, illuminating the darkness beyond. I counted seven – no, eight – mature vampires scrambling out of the weeds to head towards me and my little asshole posse. Strong, hot hands gripped my biceps and hauled me backwards. I spotted chrome and blacked out windows and was wholly unsurprised as I was manhandled into a waiting Hummer.

“Go!” First Voice hollered.

The shooting started.

I had a brief impression of hooded figures standing steady in front of the vehicle, dropping vampires like gunslingers, and then my head was forced down, a blindfold applied, and I was spirited away to god-only-knows where.


	3. Part 1: Ignition - Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning - from here on there will be spoilers. Read with caution.
> 
> Quinlan contemplates his choice of new Sun Hunter, who has discovered Gus isn't very good at keeping secrets. A new vehicle is acquired and a fragile alliance forms.

In a dimly-lit underground room, a lone figure paused behind a desk which had been dragged down from administrative offices several levels up. He was tall and straight, dressed in tactical gear over a black hoodie. On the desk, his pair of leather gloves lay draped over a long, brutish weapon designed to fire eight-inch spikes. Faint puffs of vapor came from his dry, parted lips, residuals of mostly-irrelevant breathing.

There was no sound this far down in the mine, yet still the figure’s scarred, bald head tilted to the side, as if listening.

Which was exactly what he was doing.

_Quinlan._

_Yes._

_It will be time, soon._

_I am aware._

_You must make preparations._

_I have already begun._

_Very good._

The Ancients’ telepathic multivoice slowly died away, like a last breath. Half-vampire Quintus Sertorius the Born, Quinlan for the last five hundred years or so, rolled a chair back from the desk and sat down heavily. He was tired. For some time now, he and his four Hunters had been making daily runs into Manhattan and the surrounding areas, working to quell the rapidly-expanding plague of _strigoi._ It had fast become evident this was more than just the typical outbreak spawned from a sloppy, unfinished feed. It was an attack.

Moving about so much in the light was difficult for them all; even with his greater resilience to UV wavelengths, he still suffered from the exposure. The skin of his face felt drawn and tight. His many scars itched constantly, especially the fresher ones on his lip and cheek. The Hunters were even worse off, and consequently, much harder to manage.

One foray had been particularly grueling. A few days prior, due to traffic snarls on the southern entrances to the island, the squad had been forced to divert north through Yonkers. While heading east towards 87 South, Quinlan had become aware of a vast wave of psychic distress emanating from a location slightly to their north. Against orders, he’d whipped the snarling Hunters into the wealthy neighborhood of Bronxville. Their instinctual resistance abated somewhat once the Hummer entered a network of tree-covered streets, welcome shade reducing the level of communal pain being experienced inside the vehicle. From there, Quinlan had followed the psychic terror as a bloodhound follows scent, storming a hypermodern home just in time to rescue two young children, their caretaker and her daughter from two of the unclean.

It had been a shame about the caretaker’s daughter. Had circumstances allowed, he would have put her down away from the mother, however, they’d been out of time. The woman’s scream of agony still echoed in his mind. Outside, as she’d hustled her two young charges across the snowy yard, she’d turned back to face him. He been on the covered porch, watching to ensure they made it to their car. The caretaker had fixed him with a stare so full of anguish he’d been forced to look away.

 _“Boule nan lanfè!”_ she’d screamed at him. _“Vous diable!”_ Haitian was not one of the many languages he spoke, but it was close enough to French for him to understand. “Burn in hell, you devil!”

Indeed.

For decades, this old mine had been a satisfactory base of operations. The material mined here had been deemed deadly to humans, so they stayed away of their own accord. The livestock stored in the upper levels was only kept a few months, so their exposure was not a concern. The Ancients did not breathe, nor did the Hunters.

Quinlan did. He coughed now, conscious of the particulate-laden air. His own body was immune to disease but not to discomfort. In the mine, it was a daily burden that became particularly uncomfortable when thirst increased his urge to breathe. Several days out from a feed his lungs would begin to ache for air almost as much as his stinger ached for blood. He did not understand why. He did not need to. It had always been this way and always would be. Petty physical miseries were immaterial to the needs of his employers. A good servant and soldier endured in silence.

The Ancients wanted operations to be brought in closer to the epicenter of the problem. The distance between the city and their home base was now too great. Valuable kill time was being lost traversing the roads.

Moving was imperative.

Then they would begin building their army.

An appropriate location in Manhattan had not yet been found. The situation in the city made it difficult to scout; their bulky utility vehicles attracted too much attention from both humans and vampires. Stealth was an emerging priority.

He found the Sun Hunter talking to his _madre._ The young man was seated on a stool, speaking in gentle Spanish to the _strigoi,_ just far enough away so she could not reach him. She leaned heavily into the chain around her neck, the collar choking off the hungry noises emanating from her chest.

Quinlan rapped softly on the doorframe with the Kevlar knuckles of his gloves. Despite the rags muffling her face to dampen hearing and sight, he would take no chances speaking near the Master’s conduit.

Out in the hallway, Gus greeted him. “S’up?”

“Walk with me.”

They headed back towards the room Quinlan used for planning missions. Gus shuffled along, hands in pockets, a loose-jointed counterpoint to the rigid, proper figure striding next to him.

Quinlan said: “Augustin, I need you to provide suggestions on a new vehicle. We require something more agile than our SUVs for use in scouting Manhattan. It should be powerful and nimble, but smaller. Lower profile. Understated. No bright colors… or rims.”

Gus groaned at that last part. “Why’d you have to go and make it hard?”

A smirk curled the ends of Quinlan’s long lips. He kept walking, hands behind his back. The Sun Hunter was clever and would think of something. That cleverness was a large part of why they had picked him up.

Eventually, Gus grunted. “The new one. The _chica._ ”

Quinlan paused mid-stride. “What?”

“The woman we picked up last night.”

“What about her?”

“She’s got a car.”

As clever as he was, Gus also possessed an enormous capacity to frustrate Quinlan. From his non-stop use of profane street slang to his bizarre insistence on that impractical pinch-front hat, the young man sometimes trod a very thin line with his mentor’s patience. The vampire’s smile quickly curled down into a tolerant-but-not-for-long frown.

Gus held up his hands to allay him. “Hear me out, Mr. Q.”

“Go ahead,” Quinlan replied wearily.

“So I was going through her stuff, you know. Possessions and shit that she had with her. Like you told me to. And I noticed her keys were for a Tesla.”

“So?”

“A Tesla is a badass ride, man. They fast as hell.”

“Small?”

“So-so.”

Quinlan closed his eyes, summoning peace. “Maneuverable?”

Gus nodded. “I don’t think you could drift one but–”

Quinlan held up his hand and Gus fell silent. The Sun Hunter did have a nose for vehicles, although he preferred impractical ones with ridiculous wheels and conspicuous paint jobs. Still… if Gus found this Tesla to be of interest, there might be reason to explore further.

“Bring her to me.”

“You got it, boss.” Gus hurried off.

Annoying as he could be, the Sun Hunter was generally obedient, and for that Quinlan was grateful.

He was sitting behind the desk when a knock on the door announced Gus’ return.

“Come.”

She was ushered in, annoyed by how Gus was holding her by her upper arm. She shook her arm out of his grip as soon as they were in the room. “Enough, yo,” she snapped sarcastically. “I’m obviously not going anywhere, _amigo.”_

Gus snapped back: “Girl, you need to show some respect. You in Mr. Q’s digs now. Shape up.”

As of yet, the woman hadn’t even glanced at Quinlan. “Bitch, I’m no girl–“

“Both of you, enough!” Quinlan rose.

She said: “Holy fucking shit.”

He gestured towards an empty chair. “You. Sit.” Waved his hand at the Sun Hunter. “Leave us.”

With a derisive snort at his former charge, Gus moved for the door. “Respect!” he hissed, and much to Quinlan’s relief, left without need for a second reminder.

The woman was small but appeared healthy enough. At this close proximity, the sound of the blood in her veins was very loud. It had been several days since he’d fed, and he knew how he looked: gaunt, eyes encircled by dark flesh, mouth dry with fangs showing no matter how hard he tried to close his lips. And his breathing – a constant, wet rumble of aching discomfort.

His stinger twisted hard in his throat, stimulated by her bloodbeat.

“My name is Quinlan,” he told her, leaning forward. “I’ve brought you here because I understand you may have something we need.”

Staring, wide-eyed with fear and frozen fascination, she said, “You can talk. Are you a vampire?”

“I’m the one asking questions right now.”

She opened her mouth to respond then caught herself, snapping it shut.

“What is your name?”

She told him.

He nodded, committing it to memory. “The Sun Hunter – Augustin – tells me you may possess a vehicle which meets requirements we have of late. We need a vehicle which is fast and agile. We require maneuverability and power with which to escape a pursuit. It must be smaller than our SUVs.”

The side of her mouth twitched. “Pretty much everything ever made is smaller than a Hummer,” she said.

Willful, this one. And her bloodbeat was so _loud._ Quinlan pursed his lips and rumbled.

His look cowed her slightly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Yes, I know what Augustin is getting at. I have a Tesla Model S. It’s all of those things.”

“Where is it?”

“Still in the parking garage at my work. Unless someone has stolen it.”

“What do you think are the chances of that?”

She thought for a moment, dark shadows of memories passing over her face. “Low, probably. And it shouldn’t have bricked, even if the power in the garage is off.”

Quinlan blinked. “I do not understand you.”

“Bricked, lost all its charge. Dead.” She saw his continued incomprehension. “It runs on batteries. You have to plug it in.”

“It is not a gasoline-based vehicle?”

“No. Teslas are all electric.” She was relaxing slightly, unconsciously quieting the tempting rush of her circulation. This allowed him to focus more on the possibilities this vehicle might hold. He was intrigued. Automotive technology was of no particular interest to him; he knew of electric cars but had never had any reason to investigate.

“And it is fast?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” he said. He held out his hand. “You have the keys? Give them to me.”

A flicker of indecision passed across her face, then she did the unthinkable. “No.”

Her refusal brought Quinlan up short. He was unused to such behavior. The Hunters were unable to balk; they were his to use as he pleased and possessed no will other than what he and his employers projected onto them. Humans were more difficult, especially the men, but in the end, their fear of him made them pliant. The last thing he expected was to be refused by this woman who had been under his charge for less than a day.

She drew herself up. “You take me to my work, and I’ll get it.”

“This isn’t a negotiation.” He came around to where she sat. She remained in her chair but thrust her chin up at him.

He brought his head to her level. This close, the smell of her blood, adrenaline and sweat was a promise of sweet satiation. All he needed to do was relax his throat and drink her willful little soul. The valves in his stinger flapped as he exhaled. “Keys. Now.”

Trembling, she refused again. “No.” Quickly added, “Not because I want to be difficult. I– I– just know how to drive it very well. Some skill may be needed to get it out. The parking garage where it is was overrun.”

“We have ways of dealing with that,” Quinlan growled.

“Do you want the car or not?”

He had to credit her for her bravery; his face was inches away from hers and she was holding fast. Her eyes were wide and the pulse in her slender neck very visible, but despite her obvious fear, she refused to look away. Interesting.

He straightened up with another cough. “Fine, then. Augustin will meet you in the vestibule in an hour. Do not be late. Now… get out.”

She scrambled out of the chair and disappeared through the door. Her running footsteps echoed away down the corridor.

He let out a long sigh. This one would be difficult, maybe even more difficult than Augustin. It had been many years since he’d recruited a female soldier, and not for the first time did he wonder exactly what had possessed him to pick her up. If the vehicle met their requirements, then the frustration of molding her to his needs might be worth it. If not, then…

He shook off the thought. His cramping stinger demanded attention. Quietly, he slipped out of the room and headed off into the inky blackness at the end of the hall. The door there to the stairwell barely creaked as he let himself out, heading up the steep stairs and out into the early evening to feed.

 

_______________________________________________

 

“What the hell is he?” I asked Gus.

The Mexican youth was waiting in the vestibule at the appointed time, grinning with mean glee. I still felt legless from my previous terror. I had been in a room with paramilitary Death, and it had been close enough for me to feel its breath on my face.

“Not such a hot shot now, are you?” Gus sniped.

I asked again. “What is he?”

“He’s the boss.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Gus started walking away. I had no choice but to follow him. He moved with the lazy, rolling grace of the street thug, the picture of arrogance. He wore a puffy black vest and loose, gang banger jeans. I guessed him to be no more than twenty five.

He looked back over his shoulder at me. “Chill out, and maybe I’ll fill you in while we go get your ride. Or maybe I won’t. ”

I tried to settle myself as we ambled down the long, pipe-lined corridor. The air here was bad but the sense of safety was undeniable. I’d been sequestered in a small chamber since being captured the night before. Food, water and sanitary facilities had been provided, and for the first time in two weeks, I was clean and well-rested. I’d seen no humans other than Gus. I was fairly sure the four masked individuals were not human and that the masks were more muzzles than anything. The one who had dumped me into my quasi-jail cell had thrown off the intense body heat of a mature and well-fed vampire.

Just like their boss, Quinlan.

It had been so hard to face him down, but as soon as I’d realized he was going to ask for the car, I knew no one in this operation could get it back here in one piece. The ride back in the Hummer had been a sickening slalom of weaving, brake stomping and jerking accelerations at the hands of Gus. There was no way I was letting him behind the wheel of my most prized acquisition. The ember of defiance which had scorched everything I had ever done insisted I exert my will. I clearly wasn’t going anywhere - and didn’t really want to, given the food and shelter - but I wasn’t going to be a serf.

If I chose to serve, it would be on my own terms.

I hurried after Gus. “What about my weapons?’

“What about ‘em?”

“I’m not going outside without protection.”

“You got protection: us.”

“I’d feel better if I had a gun.”

“This ain’t about your feelings, girl.”

“I’d settle for the machete.”

Gus rounded on me, speaking roughly as he continued walking backwards. “You think we’re stupid, yo? We don’t know you, _amiga._ You gotta prove yourself. Gain our respect, so to speak. Just because Mr. Q picked you up doesn’t mean you’re part of the crew. If he decides he don’t want you around, you’ll make a nice _mojito_ for one of his boys.”

“So they’re all vampires?”

Gus spun forward, boots scraping against the cold stone floor. “The Hunters are. Mr. Q ain’t, really. He’s like half and shit. He–“ Gus caught himself, realized he’d been speaking too much. “Just shut the fuck up and follow me.”

I smiled at the back of Gus’ head. He would be easy to probe.

“Whose side are we on?”

“Who do you think? Didn't you see us killing those vamps?”

“You’ve clearly got resources. Nice Hummers like yours aren’t cheap. This place looks like it costs some green, too.”

“Well yeah, no shit, man, Quinlan and the Ancients are loaded with swag, they can get just about anyth–“ Gus made a strangled sound. “Didn’t I tell you to quit with the questions?”

“I’m sorry,” I said sweetly. “I’m just trying to understand. You seem to know a lot.”

We passed by several rooms with padlock-secured, caged doors. Within them, I spied weapons, ammo cans and other types of military material piled under tarps. As he walked, Gus jingled merrily thanks to the large keyring he wore at his belt. “Those look like the keys to the kingdom. You must really be important. ”

The young man turned. Pride competed with the hostility in his eyes. “I am.”

I tilted my head and told him softly. “I’m glad you’re chaperoning me and not one of those… Hunters.”

His tough expression softened a fraction.

“Did he rescue you, too?”

He didn’t notice it was a question. “He _recruited_ me.”

“Even better.”

“How so?”

“Means you must have been doing pretty good on your own. I can tell you’re a dude who doesn’t mess around. How many vampires did you kill before he picked you up?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“I bet. You lose track after a while.”

Gus snorted. “Yeah. When they’re coming at you from all directions, countin’ isn’t really a priority.”

“Agreed.” I smiled up at him. The door was now toed open. Despite the gang tattoos on his neck and his thug aspect, we had found common ground. “Sounds like we’ve both seen some shit.”

“Shit is right.” Gus pulled up at the end of the hallway. We’d reached a vaulted chamber which was the termination point for several other similar corridors. A heavy, steel door stood before us and it was on this door that Gus leaned, crossing his Timberland-booted feet at the ankles.

Carefully, I said, “You’re his lieutenant.”

Gus puffed up inside his down vest. “You got that right, _amiga._ And you’d better remember it.” A faint smile curled his lips as he turned away, inspecting his fingernails.

I waited.

After a moment, Gus asked, “How long were you out?”

“Two weeks, I think.”

“You hide out in your house?”

“In that SUV I had. Roads were blocked to my house.”

Gus caught the subtlety. “You steal it?”

“I guess. Its owner wasn’t in much of a state to drive it at the time.”

“Vamped-out?”

I couldn’t help but snort at the term. “Vamped-out, yes.” The tension between us had lessened. “And you? How long have you been here?”

“About a week and a half. Q picked me up a couple days in to the whole mess.”

“You live here?”

“For now. This place sucks.” Gus toed the damp floor with his boot. “Soon as we’re done pulling things together then I’m getting the fuck out. Goin’ somewhere that don’t feel like I'm breathin' through a do-rag all the time.”

I was about to ask exactly what was being pulled together when the sound of footsteps caused Gus to lever himself up off the door and assume a more alert pose. Out of the darkness marched two hooded figures. One was burly, about Gus’ height and masked: A Hunter. The taller, more athletically-built one with no mask was Quinlan.

“S’up, boss,” Gus greeted him casually, in complete conflict with his erect posture.

“Augustin.” Quinlan turned and looked down his aquiline nose at me. “You are ready to take us to your vehicle?”

I nodded.

“Good.” He stepped aside as the Hunter moved up to open the steel door against which Gus had been leaning. Fresh air carrying the good scents of metal and gasoline flowed in; a garage.

So distracted was I by the smell of the vehicles that I barely reacted when Gus grabbed me by the arms to allow Quinlan cover my head with a hood. Only when I realized I was blindered again did I struggle and kick out.

Quinlan’s immensely strong, gloved hand settled around my throat. He did not squeeze but his message was clear enough. I felt the blaze of overclocked vampire metabolism through my hood and heard the soft, ominous clicking of what could only be a stinger. And then, to my shock, his voice in my head: _Settle down._

The intimacy of it froze me solid.

Gus either was unable to hear Quinlan or he was used to it. He roughly adjusted his grip on my arms, back in his role of tough _cholo,_ and shoved me forward. “Like I said, you prove yourself. Until then, the hood stays on. Now tell us where to go, hot shot.”

And that was how I got my new name.

 

___________________________________

 

An hour later, the parking garage loomed, a planar fortress which we were going to have to invade.

“Are we driving in?” I whispered.

Up front, Quinlan turned to look back at me and Gus. He clearly had very sharp hearing. “Yes.”

“What level’s your ride at?” Gus asked.

“Five.”

The Hummer bumped over the entrance ramp, headlights illuminating dusty cars. The Hunter driver proceeded slowly, turning to the right and gliding up the aisle. So far, so good. Only a million feet to go, or so it felt.

I noticed the faint blue emergency lights at the ends of the aisles were still lit. Power was on, but all the overhead motion sensors were off. We were entering a hive of shadows.

A large pickup truck, smashed nose-first into one of the concrete support pillars, blocked our way at the third level. The driver had been heading the wrong way, probably exiting in a panic, and at a high rate of speed.

“Shit,” Gus and I said at the same time.

I looked back behind us - all was clear. For now. “You’re going to have to back down and come up the exit ramps.”

I’d never backed up a vehicle as big as a Hummer in tight quarters. The muzzled driver hadn’t, either. A screech of rending metal brought us to an abrupt halt as the back bumper of a car caught the side of the SUV.

In the front seat, Quinlan let out a long, gurgling sigh.

The damage wasn’t a problem. The sound of metal on metal was. Answering screeches came from all directions. _Strigoi,_ Quinlan had called them. A lot.

The driver pulled forward, adjusted trajectory and reversed with speed. This time, he cleared the lane and headed off the way we had come, looking for the exit ramp. He rounded one turn, sped up a clear incline, took the next turn and came up short.

It looked like there was a hundred of them. Twitching, ticking, they squinted in the glare of the headlights. All shapes and sizes, most still wearing some shreds of clothes. Their bald heads gleamed, as did their hungry eyes.

Gus had just enough time to yell, “Hang on!” before the driver gunned it.

Bodies bounced off the front grille, splattering white blood across the windshield. Limbs crunched under the thick tires. We had nothing to fear while we remained in the vehicle. Still, I was rigid with tension as we cleared level three and headed up to four. The howling of the Hummer’s wheels was not loud enough to drown out the angry peals from the horde behind.

One more level to go.

“Which direction is your car?” Quinlan barked.

“Uh, turn left?” I wasn’t sure. Going up the ramps backwards had me mixed up. The aggressive _strigoi,_ faces darting at the windows didn’t help, either. One jumped and managed to stay hanging on the exterior of the Hummer for a moment, its stinger slapping against the glass, before it lost its grip.

We bumped over the ramp from four to five and turned left. Immediately, I knew I’d been wrong. The charger bays were now behind us.

“Drive around!” I yelled. “We missed it.”

The Hummer accelerated and slewed left. First corner, second corner. As we hit the third, the lights brought the tangle of cars in front of us into sharp relief. I recognized Marty’s piece-of-shit Maxima with its peeling “Impeach Obama” bumper sticker. He must have tried to escape via car and gotten tangled up in here before returning to the office to be infected and gunned down.

The driver applied the brakes.

Too late.

We skidded into the wreck. Gus, who had been leaning forward with one hand on the driver’s seat, smacked his head against the headrest. He slumped down, stunned. The only other human in this operation had now been officially rendered inoperable. Marty’s final revenge, I thought. So much for winning.

Quinlan turned around. His white face was a thundercloud of aggravation once he saw Gus. The black eyes flipped up to me.

“Is your car near?”

I could see the faint green light of the charging bays just beyond the wreck. “Yes.”

“Get out.”

“Wha–“ I began, and then Quinlan was out his door, opening mine, dragging me with him.

He kept an iron grip on my bicep. “Lead me to it,” he ordered.

The Hummer reversed out of the wreck. There appeared to be no vampires at this level yet but plenty of squealing echoed up from below, promising to change that at any second. Quinlan was carrying a bizarre long gun upright in his free hand, the weapon pumped and ready.

Sudden darkness as the Hummer turned around. My skin was crawling. All I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and whimper. This was worse than every night in the QX rolled into one. My mouth was so dry, I could not swallow. When I finally spotted the smooth curve of the Tesla’s roofline, all I was able to do was point.

Shadows within shadows moved.

Quinlan dragged me to a halt and roughly shoved me behind him. I staggered down onto one knee as he brought his weapon up and fired. There was a crunching splatter, followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground. He pumped the gun, pivoted and planted a stake in the second vampire oozing from behind a support column. God, he was fast. In the time it took him to make two kills, I was barely to my feet. He clearly agreed I was slow, as he clamped a gloved hand down on my jacket collar and commanded, “Move!”

I was glad to see the plug still firmly seated in the car’s charge port, green ring glowing. I grabbed the handle, depressed the release button.

It wouldn’t let go.

I pressed it again, wiggled. Some give, but it was still stuck.

“Jesus, you have got to be kidding me,” I hissed.

“What’s the matter?”

“The charger is stuck.”

“So?”

“So the car won’t start if it’s plugged in.” I struggled to find the fob in my pocket. Sometimes locking and unlocking would trigger the release. My fingers curled around the smooth plastic, found the button. Brakes and headlights flashed as the car locked, red and white strobing brightly twice.

The lights illuminated a vampire climbing over the wall of the garage. It leapt down and pelted straight at us. I had just enough time to throw my arm up in front of my face as it expelled its stinger with a squelch. Moisture struck me before Quinlan flattened it with a kick to the chest. The vamp went down on its back. He brought his knee down across its torso, pulled out his long knife and beheaded the snarling thing in one hard chop.

Frantically, I scrubbed my face with my sleeve, thinking: Oh fuckfuckfuck worms. My right hand was still clamped on the charger handle. This time, it let go.

I yanked off the plug adaptor and dove for the drivers door. Hauled it open and flung myself inside, then nearly slammed my own leg in it as I pulled it shut. As Quinlan got in, I pawed at the overhead light, trying to see if there were worms on my face. Before I could activate the light, he grabbed me and wrenched my head towards him.

“Hold still,” he snarled.

My jaw felt like it would split in his grip.

“You’re fine,” he pronounced. “Let’s go.”

Face throbbing, I swiped the touchscreen was rewarded by a bright display indicating a healthy Tesla with a full charge. Lights on. Parking brake off. I threw the car in reverse and blasted out of the parking space. The seatbelt I hauled on one-handed. I noticed Quinlan’s was still dangling free.

“Seatbelt!” I ordered as I slewed around the open corner.

He gave me a look.

I took another corner and this time put the car properly sideways for a second before the electronic stabilization kicked in.

He braced himself in the seat, still looking at me.

I slowed to take the next turn, as the lower aisles were still filled with vehicles. “Listen,” I said, “You’ve been giving me orders all night and I’ve been more than accommodating. So just do me a favor and put that goddamned seatbelt on.”

“If you crash, I will survive.” His tone was that of an adult speaking to a stupid child.

“I’m not worried about you!” I realized I was yelling but couldn’t help it. The adrenaline, the fear, and the undeniably familiar comfort of my own car had undone my composure. “If you get ejected, do you have any idea how hard it will be fix the fucking windshield?”

I came up on the Hummer as it was plowing through its second crowd of vampires for the night. Hitting the brakes hard, I stood the Tesla on its nose. My seatbelt caught me tight across the chest; Quinlan hit the dash with a clatter of weaponry and a grunt. As I shot through the hole in the horde the Hummer had made, the acceleration knocked us both back into our seats.

We sped away from the office park. After a moment, I heard the faint click of the passenger seatbelt and felt great satisfaction.

 

____________________________________

 

Up on the highway, there was nothing but empty road stretching out into the night.

Quinlan, belted in and looking interested, said, “Show me what it can do.”

“All right then. Hang on.”

I flattened the accelerator. The car launched, rocket-smooth, the electric motor surging. In a few short seconds, it was up to 80 MPH. Up ahead, an off ramp made a small chicane. I flicked the brights to see what lay ahead, then hurtled down the ramp, shooting it as straight as I could, minimizing the need to slow down. At the intersection, I braked hard and slid into a left, then took off down the surface street through several sets of blinking yellow lights.

All hail deserted small town Pennsylvania in the vampire apocalypse.

It had taken me a long time before I’d dared manhandle the Tesla. The car stood as a hallmark of my success as an adult and human being, so for a year, I’d driven it like it was made of glass. Finally, one night after too much wine and a dare made by a drift-driving friend, we’d all gone out to the local high school parking lot and the Tesla had blown its first donut. Not a true donut – the traction control could not be fully disabled without pulling fuses – but still a good, tire-smoking, squealing maneuver. Elon Musk proved that night his environmentally responsible contribution to car culture could still get my rocks off.

Up ahead, the tell tale blue sign of a WalMart glowed. The store was still semi-functional; the lower portion of the lot populated with vehicles. The upper three quarters were empty. Light poles were spaced well apart. Asphalt appeared in good condition.

“You have good eyes, right?” I asked my vampire co-pilot.

“Yes.”

“Good. Watch for cops.”

“Why must we watch–?” he started to ask, and then I shut him up by powersliding into the lot with a shriek of tires.

I went around the lights, showing my new boss just how quickly the back end of the car would try to come around if encouraged. This was kid stuff; plenty of room and no other moving objects to consider. Easy. When Quinlan’s right hand slid over to grip the door handle, I knew I’d made an impression.

“Had enough?” I yelled, swinging it around once more.

“We are drawing attention,” he replied.

He was right; three figures were standing out in front of the big box’s main doors, watching us. Human, by their posture. One looked like he was on a radio.

“Damn.” I took the nearest exit out of the lot and headed for the back streets. Pulling off into a neighborhood, I cut my lights and slowed, driving dark past even darker houses. I said: “Use those eyes of yours to warn me if I’m about to hit something.”

He grunted in acknowledgement.

The neighborhood was familiar. A fellow who rebuilt engines lived here; we’d met at a car show and had discussed a potential job resurrecting my old purple Road Runner which was sitting in storage. I supposed he was wandering around now, looking for a blood meal, hands still dark with motor oil and grease. Slightly scruffy, the roads were clogged with vehicles parked on-street and in the driveways. Very easy to slide in between a old Monte Carlo SS and a beat-up Ford F-150, which is just what I did. I ran my fingers over the touchscreen and turned everything off.

We sat in the dark.

It was quiet. Nothing moved. I had a feeling my demonstration had not been called in, but I wasn’t about to tempt fate unnecessarily by driving around like an obvious idiot.

The creature next to me shifted his weight in the seat. After a moment, his deep voice cut softly through the silence. “You are quite skilled in driving. Where were you trained?”

“On the roads of life,” I replied. Realizing that came off as arrogant, I added, “I grew up in rural Upstate New York. Not much to do there, so I spent a lot of time churning dirt on the backroads.”

He nodded.

I kept my eyes on the side view mirror. “What exactly are we doing? You and your vampire-killing posse scoop me up, feed and water me, then we go on a car acquisition safari. Now, don’t think I’m not grateful to get my baby back – I am. But you need it for a reason and I’d like to know what it is. I’ve proven I’m trustworthy. How about a little back?”

He turned to me. His movement was insectile; head and shoulders rotated together, as if his neck was immobile. In the darkness, all I could see under his hood was the tip of his white nose and his jutting chin. His intense body heat was already fogging up the windows.

“Do you want a future for your species?” he asked.

I found I could not answer. The future was an admittedly difficult concept for me at the moment.

“Do you have any idea what human life will be like if this plague continues unabated?” he pressed.

“Pretty shitty,” I managed.

“It will be – as humans like to say – hell on earth.”

I was suddenly miserable. I thought of my medical team, all of whom were probably dead or hiding and soon to be dead. Thought of my SO, whose fate I was sure I knew. Thought of my veins and my bones and my own internal, doom-laden plague. Unless the card game of life dealt me an amazing hand in this next round, I’d also be folding soon. “Are you trying to scare me?”

This seemed to frustrate him. He made a tense sound in his throat. From within the hood I saw the wet glints of his eyes. “You can get out of this car right now if you want to be difficult. I will leave you here and drive it back myself.”

“You won’t and you can’t.”

“I am perfectly capable of driving a car.”

Thus began our second battle of wills in less than three hours.

Anger swelled up in my chest at his haughty tone. “Think you can figure out this touchscreen?”

Quinlan regarded the dark screen but didn’t respond.

I leaned back, placing my elbow on the wheel. “That’s about what I thought.”

We sat in our seats and ignored each other.

Early on, I had learned that to roll over meant to lose. To give up power, no matter how small, was to send the message that you could be broken.

The silence continued. He stared into the fogged windshield, loosely gripping his stake gun.

I took the opportunity to evaluate him. Now that I knew he was a half-vampire – although how that came about I had no idea – his appearance made more sense. He had the black and red eyes, the long split mouth and the fleshy stinger-breathing of a vampire. Yet – his ability to speak, articulately and intelligently, was decidedly human. I got a sense he had been around for a while. Like several human lifetimes of a while.

Outside, a dog burst into a volley of barks. I jumped. Quinlan didn’t.

“All right, you win,” I said. “So, are you part of a resistance movement or something?”

“You could call it that, yes.”

“Seems like you know what you’re doing.”

The hood dipped a fraction of an inch. “I do.”

I sighed and picked at some change left in the center console. Useless relics of a time fast running out. I thought about what it would be like to go back to sleeping in exhausted terror in the back of a car, waiting for the moment when one of the smarter ones figured out all it needed to do to claim its dinner was find a length of pipe to bust in a window. Stealing and hiding. Moving, always moving. Being cold. Being hungry.

Being alone.

“Oh, who the fuck am I kidding?” I said at last. “I don’t want to go back to living in a car. That wasn’t going to last. You jerks probably saved my life by scooping me up when you did.”

He made an assenting noise. “I imagine we _jerks_ did. Are you always so surly?”

“Most of the time, yes.” I paused for a second. His impossible seriousness rankled me. “You’re no party to be around, either, you know.”

“Augustin has said similar things.”

I snorted. “Then Gus and I might actually have something to talk about.”

He surprised me by chuckling softly. In that moment, I realized, half-vampire or not, I was glad for his company.

He said crisply, “Start the car. You have proven your worth. I will tell you why we need your vehicle as we drive back.”

It felt good to be needed.


	4. Part 1: Ignition - Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter in Part One of Keys to the Heart.
> 
> The new Sun Hunter impresses Gus with her skills. Electric car technology poses a dilemma and an emotional adventure to solve the dilemma is the result. Many old memories are stirred up.

**Warning - Spoilers. Read with caution.**

 

 

Gus checked his watch.  
  
He was worried.  
  
Quinlan and the woman were two hours late.  
  
As soon as they’d acquired 287S the Tesla had gone blasting by, a red-eyed wraith vanishing into the dark. When Gus and the Hunter pulled into the mine garage, he had been shocked not to see the Tesla parked amongst the SUVs.  
  
The fuck were they? Fifteen or thirty minutes behind was understandable, but two hours? This level of lateness wasn’t like Quinlan, who seldom deviated from his tightly devised plans. Early on, Gus had learned the importance of sticking to schedule. It had only taken two tardys to convince him.  
  
The first time, Quinlan had sacked him with carrying the all heavy gear, watching impassively as Gus sweated and struggled, assisting only when a pack of _strigoi_   threatened their safety.  
  
The second time, all he’d done was frown at Gus. For a long, long time. Quinlan’s black and red eyes, typically so flat and impassive, burned with deep displeasure. That had been the worst part. It was like all the times Gus had disappointed his _madre_ rolled up into one.  
  
He couldn’t bring himself to leave the garage.  
  
He would make himself busy while he waited for them.  
  
The back bumper of the Hummer was half-torn off where the Hunter had backed up into that car. _Hombres_ were ace with their M4s but not so hot behind a steering wheel. Gus knelt down to look under the vehicle to further assess the damage. It didn’t look too bad. A little wire to truss it back up, simple, _no problemo_ , Gusto to the rescue.  
  
He set to gathering tools. It was goddamned cold and getting colder. Dampness penetrated everything in the mine. The _strigoi_ , with their high body temperatures, were unaware or uncaring of how miserable the conditions were for humans. Gus hadn’t been kidding one bit when he’d told that woman he was planning to leave. He was a street thug who belonged in the city, not underground like some animal.  
  
He wondered how much more worse the city would get. New York had always been kind of a mess. What else would you expect of a city that big, with that many different people mixed together? But now… now it was _fucked_. Buildings burning. Cars crashed up on the sidewalks. The cops on hair trigger. You couldn’t look sideways at one without a gun being in your eye two seconds later.  
  
And of course, the vampires.  
  
Gus couldn’t tell if he and Quinlan’s crew were making any progress. They certainly were kicking ass and taking names, but the vamp plague had set in strongly in a very short time. According to his boss, they had much more work to do.  
  
“Augustin,” Quinlan had counseled him, “This may be a long fight. You must stay focused. Each effort is important, even if it doesn’t seem so at the time.”  
  
And so, Augustin Elizalde of the La Mugres put his focused effort into fixing the Hummer’s bumper.  
  
But Gus was not a mechanic. His skill set lay in other areas.  
  
When it slipped for what must have been the tenth time, he bellowed in frustration and threw his hat to the ground. His voice was still echoing off the walls when the soft rush of tires and an electronic whirr drew his attention. Abandoning the troublesome bumper, the Sun Hunter turned around to watch the sleek, black Tesla pull around into an open space. It was choice: pristine finish, super dark tint, choice silver turbine rims. And quiet as a vamp sneaking up on a Dear One.  
  
He felt proud Quinlan had taken him up on his suggestion.  
  
They got out. Gus called, “You all late as shit. What did you do, go for a joyride?”  
  
“Yes.” The woman sounded very satisfied with herself.  
  
Quinlan said nothing. He stalked around the rear of the Tesla to investigate what Gus was doing. Before his boss could speak, Gus turned away to heft up the drooping bumper. “I’m working on it, Mr. Q. Just about got it all fixed up.”  
  
“Do you now?” Quinlan’s tone was dry.  
  
Gus jumped when weight of the bumper lifted slightly; the woman’s hands were next to his, supporting it. “Here,” she said, fixing him with a look that would bear no refusal. “You hold; I’ll feed the wire through.”  
  
“I’ll leave you to it.” Quinlan, his weapon slung over his shoulder, headed for the exit.  
  
“Thanks,” Gus said. He waited a few beats until he was sure Quinlan was gone. “Did you really go on a joyride?”  
  
“We did, indeed,” she replied. “Blew donuts in a WalMart parking lot.”  
  
“Sounds like a load of shit.”  
  
“Why would I lie?” she said.  
  
“You’d better not. I don’t suffer no liars.”  
  
She gave him a look. “The world’s crazy enough without needing to make shit up.”  
  
This unlikely woman seemed to have a host of surprises up her sleeve. At first glance, she didn’t look capable of anything other than carrying a purse full of credit cards just waiting to be stolen. But up close, her attitude – intense, no bullshit, seemingly fearless – rang very familiar in his ears.  
  
Her good taste in cars helped, too.  
  
“You got some _cojones_ on you.” Gus shook his head, impressed. “What did Mr. Q do?”  
  
“Sat in his seat and acted unimpressed and grumpy.”  
  
“Sounds about right.”  
  
“Is he always so serious?”  
  
Gus put a knee under the bumper and shoved. Something felt like it locked back in place. “Dude has a lot on his mind.”  
  
“I know. He told me.”  
  
“All of it?”  
  
“Enough for me to know this is a better future than the one I had in that SUV." She gave Gus an honest and open smile. “Plus, I like killing the fuckers.”  
  
“Sounds like you’re in, then.” What was good enough for Quinlan was good enough for Gus.  
  
She twisted the ends of the wire loosely together. “We’ll need pliers to finish that.”  
  
Gus let go. He extended a dirty hand, which she shook without hesitation. “Welcome to the club, HotShot.”  
  
The bumper clanged loose and they both jumped.  
  
HotShot noticed Gus’ hat on the garage floor. She knelt to retrieve it, carefully brushing it off before returning it to him. “I think we both better keep to killing vamps. Car repair does not seem to be either of our fortes.”  
  
 _“Si, amiga,”_ Gus agreed.

  
____________________________  
  
  
  
“How much longer is that bitch going to take to charge?’  
  
Quinlan, standing next to Gus, clicked wetly in agreement.  
  
I didn’t blame either of them for being frustrated. The situation was – in a word, shitty. Between the cold, the 110 volt outlet and the exceedingly long extension cord we’d had to use, the charge bar on the Tesla’s dash was creeping up at a barely imperceptible rate.  
  
I did some quick math in my head and felt a little sick. “About forty more hours.”  
  
After a day of rest, Gus had rousted me with a clap and a grin. We weren’t exactly best friends yet, but as the only two humans in the place, a bond of sorts had formed quickly. Over a breakfast of cold toaster pastries, the young man informed me Quinlan wanted to take the Tesla into Manhattan ASAP. It was clear now that wasn’t going to happen.  
  
Gus made a strangled sound. _“Dios mío!_ Are you kidding?”  
  
“I wish I was.” I walked around the car to get away from the withering pressure of Quinlan’s gaze. “Without a 240 volt hard-wired wall charger, this is how it’s going to go.”  
  
“How fast will it charge with a wall charger?” Quinlan rumbled.  
  
“Overnight,” I answered quickly.  
  
“Yeah but it’s not like we can roll on up to a fucking dealership and just buy one,” Gus countered, agitated. “Like _that_ won’t draw unwanted attention: ‘Oh hey there, mister salesman, please sell me a charger, it not like there isn’t a vampire fucking apocalypse happening or anything.’”  
  
Quinlan said, “Then we may need to procure one through less… obvious means.”  
  
Gus ran his fingers around the leather brim of his hat. I already knew that was a sign of nerves. “Quinlan, man, in order to steal something you gotta know where it is first. How am I gonna figure out where to get a fucking Tesla wall–“  
  
I cut him off. “You don’t need to steal one.”  
  
They both looked at me: Gus dubious, the vampire unreadable.  
  
“My house,” I said. “I have one in my garage. We just need to pull it out, then install it here. Problem is getting there. All the roads in to my neighborhood were blocked by accidents.”  
  
I could see Quinlan chewing on the idea. He asked, “How well do you remember where the wrecks were, what they were like – number of vehicles, topography around them?”  
  
“Top-what?” Gus asked.  
  
I ignored him and answered the vampire. “Well enough. Are you thinking circumnavigate?”  
  
Gus tugged his hat again. “ _Cómo_?”  
  
“Maybe,” Quinlan replied, ignoring him as well. “Meet me in the planning room. I want to plot this on the map.”  
  
“Fuck you both and your fifty cent words,” the young man muttered.  
  
One of Quinlan’s hairless eyebrows went up. He pivoted on his heel to face Gus. “If you’re feeling left out, Augustin, you may participate by readying that Hummer over there.” One long arm came up, pointing to the largest of the SUVs, resplendent with blackout tint and gleaming tow winch.  
  
“Yes, boss.” Gus gave his hat one last tug then headed off towards the vehicle. His manner was aggrieved, but I got the distinct sense he was glad to work on something he understood.  
  
I, however, wasn’t sure what I had gotten into. The adrenaline of the first adventure had long worn off and now, separated from Gus, I felt exposed and vulnerable. In the corridor, I hung back, keeping a good ten feet between me and the vampire.  
  
At the planning room door, he paused, waiting.  
  
Then opened the door for me.  
  
I hesitated, taken aback by the gentlemanly gesture.  
  
“Go on,” Quinlan said. “Gus has taken to calling you HotShot, so earn your name.”  
  
I hurried past him, shivering as I passed through the nimbus of his body heat.  
  
From a shelf bolted to the wall, Quinlan produced an oversized, dog-eared road atlas. He tossed it on the table and handed me a pencil. “Mark the map.”  
  
I flipped pages fast, found my place, then set to drawing out the locations of the accidents. Each one stood clear in my mind; in those first few days after everything had gone south, I’d tried every ingress at least twice. The one where I’d encountered the two aggressive vamps seemed most viable. I circled it.  
  
Quinlan came up next to me, looking over my shoulder. This close, I could smell him: faint ammonia, gun oil and a predominating dry scent, like old, fragile paper. The clicking of his stinger was loud in my ear.  
  
“This one.” I tapped the page. “I almost made it past here the last time I tried, but I got attacked.”  
  
“Terrain?”  
  
“Ditches on both sides, grassy berm then treeline.”  
  
“Is the road completely blocked?”  
  
“It’s a three car accident, but I remember them being small cars. I bet we could drag one free to clear a path.”  
  
“Good.” He leaned forward to pull the atlas closer, studying my markings with great intensity. The radiant warmth of him washed over me, chasing away the clammy dampness for a moment. It was pleasant. I shivered again.  
  
“Can you drive a Hummer?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
He stood up, tucking the atlas under his arm. “Operate a tow winch?”  
  
“I’ll figure it out.”  
  
He made an agreeable sound deep in his chest, pleased by my responses. A slight smile touched the outer edges of his split mouth as he dug about in a pocket. Then he tossed me a set of keys.  
  
I caught them neatly and turned to go.  
  
“One thing more.”  
  
I stopped. His faint smile had vanished. I felt strength go draining out of my legs.  
  
He asked quietly, “Was there anyone in your life who would call you dear?”  
  
I swallowed. “Yes.”  
  
The dark eyes searched my face. “How many?”  
  
“One.” I felt dizzy.  
  
“Then you should expect that person to be in or near your home. Turned. Waiting for your return.”  
  
The world shrank down to a very tiny point as I realized what I might have to do, once we got to the house.  
  
Quinlan said decisively, “I will retrieve your weapons. Then we can go.”

  
  
____________________________

  
  
With a hammering heart, I pulled into my driveway. The drive out had been uneventful. A large truck had, at some point, smashed through the accident blocking our route. The truck itself was dead dinosaur of twisted metal jackknifed across the asphalt a hundred feet beyond the turn off into my neighborhood. No towing or winching had been necessary.  
  
Please let him not be here, I begged silently.  
  
My former upscale suburban neighborhood still looked mostly habitable. Leaf-littered lawns and a few open doors were the only indicators the owners had long since fled or died. It was still quite light out, which meant any nearby _strigoi_ would be soundly asleep.  
  
Gus let out a low whistle from the back. “Damn, girl. Now this is a pad.”  
  
“How many entry points?” asked Quinlan, focused on the task at hand.  
  
I did my best to rally. “Two: front and back doors. Garage is locked from inside. I think it's safer to go in through the front.” I got out, shaking.  
  
Quinlan pulled his hood down low over his eyes and took point, stake gun held at the ready. The three of us moved up to the entrance. Our footsteps crunched in the autumn grass. I could see where something had tried to claw off one of the front window screens. Similar claw marks scored the front door's dark wood in a stuttering diagonal. Quinlan tried the knob: locked.  
  
I stepped up next to him and rattled my key into the lock. Gus squinted through the leaded glass sidelight to my left. “Movement?” I asked.  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“I’m going to open it.”  
  
The tumblers turned with a clunk. We listened for any tell tale scrabbling or breathing. So far so good. The door opened smoothly. The only sound was the Hummer’s engine ticking in the driveway.  
  
I put one foot on the threshold then stopped. Motioned to Quinlan that he should enter first. “Age before beauty,” I quipped in a poor attempt to cover up my anxiety.  
  
Quinlan gave me a sidelong look, then stepped inside.  
  
My house. All my things. The soft bits and hard edges, dark colors contrasting against pale walls – everything was foreign and sterile now. With a stranger’s eyes, I saw a stately space filled with art and sculpture, more like a showroom than a residence. In the master bathroom, I stared for a moment at the gun-toting apparition in the mirror, not realizing at first that it was me.  It wasn’t until I spied my medications lined up neatly on the counter that felt like I was home. We cleared the master suite, moved to the great room and kitchen, then the guest bedrooms. Everything was as I had left it, two weeks before.  
  
The interior door to the garage was still locked. Gus entered, flipped the light switches: no power. That was a blessing; he would be able to easily disconnect the charger without needing to turn off the breakers. A quick flash with his mag light proved no danger therein.  
  
I pointed. “Over there, on the far wall.”  
  
“I’m on it.” Gus was already pulling out a screwdriver.  
  
I left him to it. I found Quinlan in the great room, contemplating what had been my favorite sculpture: a _quadriga_ , the Roman four-horse racing chariot, cast in bronze. I made another attempt at humor and failed. “That was back when four HP was a lot.”  
  
He looked up as if startled. His expression was far away. After a moment, he asked, “This was all yours?”  
  
“Yes.” I trailed my hand down the back of a sofa, leaving marks in the dust. “It doesn’t feel real.”  
  
“How long will it take Augustin to remove the charger?”  
  
I shrugged. “What do _you_ think? Does he know anything about electrical?”  
  
Quinlan responded with a low rattle, catching my drift. His head swiveled towards the back of the house. “We should clear the rear yard if we expect to be here past sundown.”  
  
This time I took the lead. Quinlan followed me out the double doors onto the patio. The pool cover had come loose. One corner was flapping in the breeze, slapping loudly against the decking. I stooped and re-secured it.  
  
“Thank you,” he said. He remained under the awning, in the shade.  
  
I looked around at what had once been my little paradise. Classic-style rectangular pool, the short ends curved to contrast the arrow-straight sides. The amphora-shaped planters, their contents now brown and dry. The softly curving, rolled-arm chaise I had bought back in the days when I could safely lay out in the sun. This had been an area of great peace for me.  
  
I so badly wanted to feel that same peace again.  
  
The rear gate was open. Dirt had been scraped in a stuttering pattern all along the deck, edging along the back windows then heading off towards the far side of the house.  
  
Footprints.  
  
Quinlan had noticed them, too.  
  
I knelt and touched a muddy smear, as if putting my fingers in the dirt would give up some meaningful secret. There was nothing to learn - I knew exactly what these meant. Why they were here. Who had made them.  
  
What I had to do.  
  
I looked up at Quinlan, my composure rapidly leaving me. I pulled my gun out of its holster. I was shaking so bad I could barely hold it. How I would aim it I had no idea. “Do I have to do this alone?”  
  
His eyes ticked upward. The setting sun was making one last go of it, gilding the yard with pale gold. Quinlan’s pupils were contracted, revealing a wide ring of brilliant red iris. He slowly shook his head. “I cannot come with you. This light is too bright.”  
  
The crimson gaze settled on my unsteady hands. “I’ll get Gus.” He turned on his heel, stiffly erect, and went back into the house.  
  
I stepped out into the sun, turning my face to its tepid warmth. It didn’t help. My insides were a bag of broken glass. A thousand memories flashed through my mind, snapshots of life. Much of it had been spent alone: at work, at doctors' offices, at tracks behind the wheels of cars too loud in which to have a conversation. Here and there, though, were quiet times. And in those quiet times, I had not been alone. My SO had been a lawyer and very busy, but so was I. Our lives had intersected in just the right balance of time together versus time apart. Right before the world ended, we had begun talking about making things more permanent. He called me his Crazy Car Girl.  
  
Tears burned; I blinked them away and stuffed my feelings down.  
  
When Quinlan came back out, he was frowning deeply. Gus looked cowed and reticent. Something had passed between them.  
  
The vampire unslung his stake gun and held it out to Gus.  
  
Gus spluttered: “Why me, man? This is her cross to bear.”  
  
“She is untrained. This needs to be done quickly and quietly.”  
  
Gus didn’t take the gun and instead, hissed at the side of my head. “You do this yourself, with your own shit.”  
  
I shook my head. “There’s not enough room back there to swing a machete. And I don’t think I can hit him with the handgun. I’m shaking too bad.”  
  
“Tough. I ain’t doin’ it,” Gus crossed his arms.  
  
He was right. Untrained or not, upset or not, it was my responsibility. They had told me as much on the ride up. “Just give me the goddamned stake gun,” I said miserably.  
  
Gus appeared to throw a triumphant look at Quinlan. The vampire deliberated for only a moment, then released his weapon into my hands. It was much heavier than it looked. I fitted the stock into my shoulder, testing the weight.  
  
“There’s a stake already chambered,” he said.  
  
I looked at Gus. “Please…back me up?”  
  
Setting my jaw, I headed towards the side of the house. Fifteen steps felt like a mile. After a moment, Gus came behind, making displeased noises.  
  
The pool shed on the side had been padlocked but that had been smashed off. Churned dirt disappeared under the doors. A bloody handprint stood out in warning on the plastic exterior. The sun’s western orientation put this side of the house in shade.   
  
I looked around for something to use to pull open the door. There was an old metal rake, left in the grass next to the fence. Gus also spotted it and silently picked it up. He gave me an ugly glance, but instead of anger, I was surprised to see fear and pain contorting his face.  
  
“Don’t you fucking miss.” Gus edged forward, hooked the tines under the door and pulled. The shed opened with a loud scrape.  
  
The _strigoi_ inside was still asleep, curled up under a couple brightly colored pool floats. Tufts of dark hair still clung to its skull. He had only just been turned.  
  
My heart squeezed. If it had been a car engine, I would have just thrown a rod.  
  
I marched forward, aimed, and staked the only person in the world who had ever even remotely understood me.  
  
I didn’t wait to see the white blood come oozing. I didn’t wait to see him relax in death. Whipping around with a moan, I shoved the stake gun into Gus’ hands and pushed past, blind and utterly alone.

  
________________________________

  
  
Quinlan stepped inside after HotShot and Gus headed around the corner.  The intense sunset was causing him pain; his eyes felt seared, his skin singed. Inside, the UV-blocking windows brought welcome relief. He pulled back his hood, pocketed his gloves and ran a hand slowly over his head.  
  
Hunger had made him brittle today. The exchange with Gus in the garage had not gone well. Quinlan, in no mood to lose another day of location-scouting, had snarled at Gus when the Sun Hunter balked at assisting HotShot with her burden. Gus had snarled back. Quinlan knew why. The Sun Hunter was thinking of the female vampire caged back in the mine, the mother he could not bring himself to release.  
  
Quinlan had grabbed Gus by his checked shirt. “Get out there and help her, or else I will be forced to make a difficult decision about the arrangement with your _madre_.”  
  
The ache of his stinger was intense.  
  
And a deeper ache twisted below his base physical need.  
  
He felt incredibly strange in HotShot’s home. The vampire crossed the broad living area to stand in the two story foyer, pondering a piece of abstract art almost as tall as the enormous exterior door. Mostly black, the painting seemed a pre-apocalyptic omen of the times at hand. With a small shudder, he turned back to the main part of the home which was much more classically decorated. It reminded him of a life he had not thought of in a very long time.  
  
He pressed his knuckles against his chest. Once, he too had owned a proud home, and filled it with all the splendor that military rank and accomplishment could provide. Yet, it had always felt empty. It had been easier to just stay away, accepting campaign after campaign, losing himself in the endless carnage of Roman conquest, letting the blood and mud and corpses fill the gulf within him.  
  
Except for that short time, a drop in the ocean of Quinlan’s lifespan, when his isolation had been eased.  
  
His palms tingled, as they had the night he’d been forced to snap her neck.  
  
The memory brought the pain. It roared up his spine, settled behind his breastbone, pressed against the inside of his skull. Agony. How many years had it been now? A thousand? More. An eternity since he had stood watching his wife make a meal, her lithe figure bending and swaying as she moved.  He had loved her wholly and she had trusted him. Her daughter, too.  
  
And then, all in ruins, and this loss, like nothing else he had ever felt, or would ever feel.  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut. Held his breath. Willed it to pass.  
  
HotShot came banging in through the French doors, scrubbing at her eyes with her forearm. She did either did not see him or did not care. Breathing heavily, she headed off down a side hall, footsteps echoing on the tile floor. After a moment, he heard her digging around in one of the rooms.  
  
Gus came in next, miserable as well. The Sun Hunter placed the stake gun on a table then headed away as well, back to the garage to finish dismantling the charger.  
  
The immense weight of time settled down across Quinlan’s shoulders.  
  
When HotShot came out, he was back regarding the monolithic black painting, hands clasped behind his back, his expression carefully dispassionate.  
  
She joined him at the painting. He noticed a small, clear bag full of pill bottles in her hand.  
  
“I only used one stake,” she said, wretched.  
  
“A merciful release, then.”  
  
“I guess.” She took a big, shuddery breath. “I used to think I had problems.”  
  
He was terribly aware of her misery. His own wasn’t far from the surface.  
  
She shifted her feet, then made a small sound. He looked down at her. Her eyes were brimming with near-overflowing tears. She kept her gaze on the art. “I didn’t think I’d want my old life back so bad.”  
  
Quinlan ached not only for himself, he realized, but also for his two human partners. He put his hand on her shoulder.  
  
After a moment, she broke into sobs. Without thinking, he pulled her awkwardly to his chest, his own emotions dangerously close to unhinging.  
  
He said with some feeling, “It is human to want to return to the past.”  
   
She clutched him tightly in response.  
  
The light faded and the house grew dim. Standing in that lonely space, it was not a human and a vampire but simply a man and a woman, very much the same in their pain.

 


	5. Part 2: Acceleration - Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HotShot and Gus have fun reconning in the city, while Quinlan gets dressed down by his masters. A nest must be cleared and HotShot comes upon Quinlan in a difficult moment after the battle. She is discovered to have been possibly injured in the fight. Gus notices some things about their interactions which pique his curiosity.

“Augustin Elizalde,” I said, taking one hand off the wheel to point at him. “You are a dick.”  
  
“Who, me?” Gus cried, laughing. He’d been teasing me mercilessly for the last fifteen minutes. “I’m not the one who nearly burned down the entire mine trying to install a fucking charger.”  
  
I counted the letters off with my fingers. “D-I-C-K. First class. I’d say I did pretty good for someone using instructions off the Internet.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, but who got you those? I had to drive all the way to Allentown to get a fucking Internet connection on my phone just so you could get your fucking instructions!”  
  
“And you got me the wrong ones first.”  
  
Snorting, Gus took a swig from his can of Coke, then broke out into a another set of giggles which quickly devolved into coughing. We both had terrible coughs from the air in the mine and were glad to be out on the road. I was much worse off than Gus but was trying not to dwell on it. We were on our fifth afternoon run into Manhattan in as many days.  There was a surprising amount of traffic on the road: panel trucks, semis, and what appeared to be a goodly number of commuter cars. The world grinding on, pretending it didn’t know, didn’t see what was happening.  
  
Gus wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “ _Madre de Dios_ , he was so pissed when that breaker blew up, yo.”  
  
“I know.” It had not been my finest moment, for sure.  
  
“You two cool now?”  
  
“I think so.”  Things had been awkward since that evening in my home. The exploding breaker and subsequent fire had not helped. Right after I’d put out the flames, Quinlan had come striding through the smoke to fix me with a gaze so complex I’d balked and scuttled away. There had been a mixture of alarm, disapproval but also something that looked suspiciously like concern fighting for priority in his expression. I skulked around for days, executing his orders with my eyes on the floor, not knowing how to be.  
  
Last night, he caught me in the stairwell as I was slinking back to the upper floor office where Gus and I had made a little camp. The air up there was clearer, thanks to the cold breeze singing through broken windowpanes.  
  
“You’ve punished yourself enough,” was all he said before vanishing back into the shadows.  
  
Gus was still laugh-coughing into his hand. “This fucking traffic, man. Does anything ever stop it?”  
  
“Apparently not,” I replied.  
  
We were nearing the Lincoln Tunnel, its triple-arched stone maw ready to swallow us up.  
  
“I hate this fucking tunnel,” I grumbled. “What’s the address for today?”  
  
Gus read it off the paper Quinlan had given him. It was on 59th Street, quite a prestigious area.  
  
Each day we visited a different address. All apartment buildings of varying sizes and occupancy. All had views across to Central Park. Each of the five properties had sat poorly with Gus for one reason or the other.  
  
“I’d really like to know what we’re doing,” I said.  
  
“You’ll see soon enough.” Gus was in the loop. I was not.  
  
It bothered me to not be included. In my old world, I had been the one who made the plans. Now, I was a mere driver and organizer of storerooms. The supplies kept in the mine were vast: weapons, ammunition, tools, piles of military fatigues and gear. The Hunters clearly went through a lot of clothes. I attributed this to the spilling of corrosive blood in battle. Much of the stuff had been carelessly tossed into random rooms. It was a disorganized mess. When I wasn’t sitting behind a steering wheel, I was carting things back and forth, sorting, piling.  
  
Boxing.  
  
I’d boxed up quite a bit after that day at my house. I hadn’t shed a tear since humiliating myself by blubbering into Quinlan’s vest. Push forward. Be the shark. Don’t stop moving. Don’t stop working. Or else you might just feel… something.  
  
There was a lump in my throat. I swallowed hard against it. That act brought on a coughing fit so severe I nearly swerved into the panel truck next to us.  
  
“Shit!”  
  
Tires screeched, horns honked and the truck driver extended a meaty hand to flip us the bird.  
  
When I caught my breath, I asked Gus, “Do you think they’ll still flip each other off even after they’re turned?”  
  
“It’s New York, man,” was Gus’ reply. “Some things won’t never change.”

  
_________________________

  
  
Thirty minutes later, we slid smoothly into an on-street parking spot in front of the building.  
  
The fine mid-October afternoon welcomed us. Slanting rays of sun cut between tall buildings, striping the world yellow and gray. Central Park shed blankets of leaves across 59th Street, tan and red swirling across the windshield. New Yorkers went about their business, striding confidently along, stepping out in front of taxis as they had always done. Only when the rays of light winked out completely would the tone of the city change. Then, those outside would peer suspiciously at all passerby while they hurried anxiously to their destination.  
  
“What time is it?” Gus asked, jittery. He was on his third Coke of the day.  
  
“A little after four. We’ll be fine, Gus. We’ve got two hours of daylight left. That’s enough to scout the building and get out before dark.”  I paused. “Of course, scouting might be quicker if you would just tell me why we’re out here.”  
  
“You’re not supposed to know.”  
  
“For God’s sake,” I said. We both got out. I leaned on the sloping glass roof. “It makes no sense for me not to know. Did he expressly tell you not to tell me?”  
  
“Well no, man, but still, he didn’t say I could.”  
  
“Listen, if he gets mad, I’ll take the heat. I’ll tell him I bent you over about it.”  
  
“You’ll tell him what? That sounds fucked up, _amiga_. Like dirty and shit.”  
  
I rolled my eyes. “Christ. Twisted your arm. Bullied you. Made you an offer you couldn’t refuse.”  
  
Gus stepped up on the curb, sarcastic and sly now. “What kind of offer, _mama_?”  
  
“Ugh, fuck you.”  
  
“You wish.”  
  
Our good-natured exchange was spirited enough that a well-dressed woman passing by with a bug-eyed purse dog slowed to stare at us. Her wary expression confirmed what I suspected: the Tesla, Gus and I made an exceedingly bizarre trio.  
  
I hooked a thumb at her. “See, even she thinks you’re out of your mind.”  
  
The woman snorted and hurried away.  
  
Gus made a kiss-face at me. “Come on, _mamacita_. Let’s go check out these digs.”  
  
It clicked. All the organizing. All the boxing. I didn’t know why but at least I knew what: we were moving.  
  
“Got it, homes,” I told Gus, following him into the small, dark lobby. “But you know what?”  
  
Gus stepped into the old caged elevator, the keys Quinlan had given him jingling in his hand. “What?”  
  
“You’re still a dick.”

  
_________________________

  
  
As he dragged the struggling livestock down to the cavern beneath the mine, Quinlan realized they were awake, their dreams interrupted by something other than the anticipation of the drink. The multivoice speared through his head, sharp with chagrin.  
  
 _Watch your human charges, Quinlan. The female is more clever than you realize._  
  
The vampire put the livestock into a sleeper hold until it ceased to struggle. Then he lowered his eyes. _Please explain._  
  
 _The male Sun Hunter has told the female of our plans. It took her no effort to get the information._  
  
Quinlan replied: _In truth, I did not expressly forbid him._  
  
 _She quickly detected that weakness in your order. Secrets are unsafe around her. Increase your vigilance, Born._  
  
 _What is the harm? She is part of the unit and would have needed to know soon anyhow._  
  
A harmony of hissing filled the large space, throaty and heavy from the three Ancient beings. When they spoke next, it was individually; an effort reserved only for moments that riled them. At this stage in their existence, they rarely became riled.  
  
 _You have a blind spot, Hunter._  
  
 _After all these centuries._  
  
 _We thought you would have learned._  
  
The livestock came to in his arms with a jerk; he tightened his grip a little too hard and heard something snap. The Ancients’ meal went limp.  
  
A flash of psychic disgust blew through Quinlan’s body. He felt as if run through by a ghostly, cold sword. Flinching, he made to back away, forgetting about the corpse clutched in his arms.  
  
The multivoice boomed in his skull. _LEAVE IT. Then bring us another._  
  
 _Mind your charges._  
  
 _And lose your foolish sentiments, Hunter._

  
_______________________________

  
  
  
The two of them came rolling down the hallway, play-punching each other and laughing loudly. They passed by Quinlan without noticing him as he stood in a dark alcove. His head was still pounding from his encounter with the Ancients and he was in no mood for human joviality.  
  
He stepped out into the corridor and racked the stake gun at their backs. They both froze.  
  
“If this had been battle, you both would be dead.”  
  
Shame boiled from the backs of their necks.  
  
The vampire strode forward, stinger rattling loudly even though he had just fed. He clamped his left hand on Gus’ shoulder and his right on HotShot’s, then firmly pushed the two apart. Stepping through the gap, he faced them. “Never let your guard down, no matter where you are. Nowhere is truly safe. Not now.”  
  
Neither would look at him.  
  
“Pick up your heads.”  
  
HotShot’s came up a fraction of a second faster than Gus’. The avoidance she’d been cultivating over the last week seemed gone. He held her gaze for a long moment, challenging her to look away. She did not.  
  
He turned to Gus.  
  
“I trust you assessed the location.”  
  
Gus attempted to appease Quinlan with earnest politeness. “Yes, sir. It’s the best of all six. Has everything you told me to look for.”  
  
The vampire’s eyes again met HotShot’s. “And you? What do you think?”  
  
“About what?” she asked in faux innocence.  
  
He put his mind into hers. _Never lie to me._  
  
The susurrus of her bloodbeat exploded as she realized her mistake. His vampiric senses instinctually followed the rush as it bloomed from her heart out to lungs and down the limbs. Something in it caught his ear, distracting him to the point where he was only half listening when she responded in a shaky voice: “It’ll be easy to defend if need be.”  
  
“But there’s just one problem, yo.”  
  
Quinlan withdrew from HotShot’s mind and odd bloodbeat. “What might that be?”  
  
Politeness for Gus had a thirty second half-life. “There’s a fucking gigantic nest in it.”

  
________________________________

  
  
  
  
“It’s showtime, baby!” Gus’ excited voice echoed through the garage. He was shoving swords into a large gear bag while the Hunters loaded their many magazines with ammo. “Time to kick some vamp ass!”  
  
I clapped him on the back, forcing myself to smile. Gus’ gangbanger swagger was infectious. Getting caught up in it helped take my mind off the fatigue sniffing around my feet like some ragged cur, waiting to nip my ankles and take me down.  Over the course of the day, I’d gotten more and more tired. My bones felt lined with lead. It wasn’t just because my ass had been in a car for six hours a day every day for the past week. It wasn’t from Quinlan scaring the living shit out of both of us when we’d returned. It wasn’t even from the fact that all I’d had to eat today was a lousy hot dog purchased from a city street vendor still gamely trying to make a living.  
  
I knew damn well what it was.  
  
I hoped it would pass. Sometimes it did.  
  
First order of business was to eradicate the nest in the building. Quinlan had given us three hours to turn ourselves around and prepare. His plan was to be moved out of the mine and in the city within two days. The timeline seemed impossible. Neither Gus nor I dared make a peep of complaint over it though, not after earlier.  We’d jumped to our tasks, like two little kids trying to get back on their parents’ good side.  
  
A nest of them.  
  
I’d never seen a nest.  
  
How many made up a nest?  
  
Quinlan sat on a bumper, long legs extended, boots crossed at the ankles. He was wiping his stake gun in a meditative fashion, ever-watchful eyes ticking from Hunters to me to Gus and then back to me again.  
  
I put my back to him.  My entire being still felt bruised from the telepathic scolding. I got the distinct impression he hadn’t just caught the lie, either. The sensation of impossible _nearness_ had twined from my brain down into my blood. Lingered in my long bones for a few seconds, listening.  
  
Never mind, I told myself. Let him know something is wrong with me.  
  
I swung up into the cab of the black Expedition. It was the largest and oldest of the team’s vehicles, seating eight. The banged-up interior smelled strongly of vampire.  
  
“Shotgun!” Gus cried. He hopped in, his pinch-front hat rakishly tilted. “You ready, _chica_?”  
  
Turning the key, I said nothing.  
  
The interior became instantly stuffy once the blazing bodies of Quinlan and his Hunters were seated inside.  
  
I revved the engine, filling the garage full of gasoline stink. Rolled down the window to let it all in. It covered up the reek of vampires. “Let’s do this.”

 

  
_________________________________

 

  
  
The Sun Hunters had done well. Quinlan was satisfied.

  
The Ancients’ human proxies owned many buildings in the city. Centuries ago, before the population of America had exploded, the Ancients moved frequently from location to location, to better observe and shepherd their herd. With the advent of better communication and transportation technology, the need to circulate grew less and less. They had retired to the mine to contemplate, leaving their assets to be managed by human minders.  
  
This particular property was unassuming and like many New York buildings, had a pleasing, old-world character to it. He agreed with HotShot: defending the place would be simple. The only ways in were a very small, slow elevator in the lobby and a narrow service stairwell in the rear. The rooftop abutted other buildings, allowing for escape routes to the left and right. Not too many windows to defend. Dense trees across the street ensured no possibility of a sharpshooter sniping anyone passing by a window. Unused units could be easily boarded up and nailed shut. There was good access to major thoroughfares.  
  
Best of all, there was no need to keep livestock on hand. It was everywhere for the taking.  
  
The only thing that needed doing was purging the nest within.  
  
Quinlan’s four Hunters stood rigid, waiting for orders.  
  
Gus was ready. He was swinging his sword in large circles, warming up. On his face was a hungry grin. A red bandanna covered his head. His hat he had left back in the vehicle, on the dash.  
  
HotShot appeared nervous. She held her weapon properly but without the ease of experience. Once again, he wondered what he had heard in her bloodbeat. He would need to watch her closely.  
  
“Move out,” he said.  
  
They took the service stairs, single file, Gus and Hotshot in the middle, bookended by the undead.  
  
The clearing started out well enough. On the lower floors, there weren’t too many _strigoi_. The squad stayed controlled and organized, keeping it tight. The Hunters could fight tirelessly, as could Quinlan, and did not require much monitoring once they were engaged in melee. Quinlan kept his attention on Gus and HotShot.  
  
The Sun Hunter was a natural with a sword. What he lacked in technique, he made up in sheer enthusiasm. His brown eyes were wild with the lust of battle as he slashed and stabbed. Despite his fervor, he kept his moves disciplined and did not allow himself to be isolated.  
  
HotShot was much less confident. She took one down, albeit clumsily. He knew she would have preferred her machete, but it lacked the virucidal properties of silver. With worms pouring out of wounds, a silver blade was critical to remaining uninfected. As she brought up her weapon with two hands to run another attacker through at the throat, she opened her right side to attack.  
  
A loose-skinned _strigoi_ saw the opportunity. It came skidding to a halt in order to convulse and fire its stinger. HotShot was able to dodge the strike but lost her balance in the recovery, raising her forearm as she fell. The _strigoi_ lunged.  
  
Quinlan rammed it with his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gus haul HotShot up while protecting her from further attacks. The vampire Quinlan had struck stood confused. Even now, they still thought he was one of them.  
  
He dispatched it by grabbing its stinger, yanking it close and wrenching off its head with a grunt.  
  
HotShot’s eyes were round with surprise.  
  
He shook worms off his gloves. “Mind the blood.”  
  
The forward Hunters were hacking down their wild brethren with mechanical efficiency. Another minute and this floor would be clear. He turned left, heading for the stairwell and the top floor. Gus came banging out of the back unit, the rearward Hunters with him. His bandanna was askew and he was out of breath but otherwise the Sun Hunter was in fine form.  
  
“Clearcuttin' the motherfuckers, man!” he crowed.  
  
Quinlan glanced up at the ceiling. Many slapping feet were overhead. He said, “The rest of them are above. They are alerted. I will go with the rearward Hunters and will call you if I require help.”  
  
Gus’ face fell. “Yo, Mr. Q, come on–“  
  
Quinlan turned away, knowing to send a human into what was ahead would be certain death.  
  
A squealing, scrabbling horde of them piled down the hallway as soon as he opened the stairwell door. These had been large, well-fed humans. Their bodies held most of their original mass, the high vampire metabolism not having yet had a chance to burn away unneeded tissue. They filled the entire top hall from wall to wall and floor to ceiling with their dirty hides.  
  
Quinlan swapped sword for stake gun and began firing. The gun held eight shots; when he clicked dry and stopped to reload, his two Hunters stepped in front and kept up the killing. Soon, a dozen vampires lay in a greasy pile.  
  
More were coming.  
  
The nest was in the front unit. A seemingly endless supply of newly-turned _strigoi_ poured out the open door. Quinlan booted one in the chest, sending it sprawling so the Hunter to his left could finish it off. He stepped over the twitching body, anxious to be done with this.  
  
Gus’ and HotShot’s bloodbeats thrummed on the floor below, their racing hearts slowing as they took rest. While he found the sound reassuring, he knew it was driving the hungry _strigoi_ mad.  
  
Quickly, then.  
  
With a snarl, he pushed into the front unit and was immediately tackled by a vampire perched atop a highboy perpendicular to the door. The thing caught flesh with its talon and Quinlan felt searing pain as it laid his cheek open. He threw it off, staked it, spun, staked another, spun back the other way just in time to catch a stinger flying straight at his bleeding face. Yanked that out by the root and put his boot through the choking creature’s skull.  
  
The last vampire charged. It was a little female, perhaps only hours into its first night of eternal vampiric life, immature stinger poking stiffly from between shapely lips. There was something off about this one. Its signature was doubled, like two photos exposed on the same frame.  
  
He staked it through the mouth, then stepped aside to let momentum carry it straight into the wall. It fell in a crumpled heap at his feet.  
  
Quiet settled over the building.  
  
He sent an order to the two Hunters to rejoin the others. They moved away, clicking softly.  
  
Alone, he regarded the steaming corpse. One signature had been extinguished. The other remained, faint but unmistakable. Quinlan turned the body over with his foot. He unsheathed his sword and placed the point at the base of the female’s rib cage, then cut all the way to the pubis with a practiced movement. Half-transformed guts spilled out, revealing a rounded, dusky-red shape: womb. Worms wriggled on its surface, unable to get at the fetus within.  
  
 _No._  
  
He took a deep breath and extinguished the signature.  
  
 _Never again._

 

  
__________________

  
  
  
“Where did the Hunters go?” I asked Gus. I was struggling to keep another coughing fit at bay. Gus’s breathing was easy; he was able to shake it off quickly once he was out of the mine.  
  
“Probably off drinking.” Gus pulled a rag out of his pocket and began to wipe down his sword. “Clean yours, too. The blood will pit the finish if you let it dry on the blade.”  
  
There wasn’t much to clean. I’d only made two kills.  
  
Another presence was missing: Quinlan. I rose heavily, and looked around, peering into the dim corners of the dark-paneled hallway. His ghostly face was nowhere to be seen.  
  
“Where’s our boss?”  
  
“Dunno.” Gus walked to at the window at the far end to watch evening fall over Central Park. “Still upstairs, I guess. Give him another minute. He’s probably just making sure we got all the motherfuckers.”  
  
“What are we going to do with all these bodies?”  
  
“Don’t worry. The Hunters will take care of them.”  
  
Perhaps five minutes passed. The only sounds in the building were the creaking of old joists and the slow drip drip of _strigoi_ blood. I finally was able to clear my throat and breathe freely but despite that, there still seemed to be no air in the building.  
  
Gus sensed my anxiety but did not share it. “I’m telling you, man, everything is fine. Chill the fuck out.” He took off his bandanna and wiped his sweaty face. “Go upstairs and get him then if you’re worried. But I’m warning you. You’ll just piss him off. He likes to be left alone, if you haven’t figured that out already.”  
  
A black shape passed by me. Warmth and the heavy smell of gun oil. The assault rifle across its back identified it as a Hunter.  
  
“Fuck it,” I said, turning towards the stairwell.  
  
Gus stretched and sat down on the windowsill. “Have it your way.”  
  
Rivulets of white blood dribbled down the stairs. A few worms coiled here and there; I gave them a wide berth. Using the pommel of my sword, I pushed open the door to the top floor.  
  
Total carnage greeted me. It looked as if some mad artist had swung his can of paint every which way, decorating the walls, the floor and even the ten foot ceiling with great splashes of oily white. Dead _strigoi_ lay tangled; some staked, some beheaded, others crushed. I saw several stingers ripped free, brownish serpent shapes coiled over their former owners.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.  
  
I found him standing just inside the front unit’s entrance, head low, the eviscerated corpse of a female vampire between his feet. His sword dangled loosely in his hand, white blood congealing on the blade.  
  
“Quinlan?” I called softly.  
  
His head jerked up, spine straightening, shoulders rolling back.  
  
"Are we done?”  
  
He turned around. I gasped. The last of the daylight seeping in through the three large windows of the main room threw shadows into the deep gash across his cheek. His blood, not pearly like a _strigoi’s_ , had soaked the bottom edge of his hood and dried in a pinkish swath down the front of his tactical vest. His expression was glazed.  
  
“Quinlan, your face…”  
  
His free hand came up to his cheek, dream slow.  
  
I reached out on instinct, in an unthinking act of simple humanity. He caught my wrist before I could touch him, jerking my hand roughly to the side. A dangerous purr rumbled out of his throat.  In my mind, another warning: _Do not._  
  
“I’m sorr–“ I didn’t get to finish.  
  
The glazed look was gone, replaced by an intense focus directed at my arm. It took me a second to see it. My jacket sleeve was torn. A long, dried streak of goo stood out on the dark fabric: vamp spit. It must have been the one in the hall, the one I had fallen in front of. I’d not even felt it connect.  Stinger? Talon? Teeth? I didn’t know. My knees went weak.  
  
Quinlan spoke aloud this time. The order was sharp. “Take that jacket off now.”  
  
I did.  
  
“Push up your sleeve." 

I was so afraid. I could hear him adjusting his grip on the sword hilt, his leather glove creaking against the wooden handle. I knew if my skin was broken I wouldn’t even see him move before my head was flying from my shoulders.  
  
Showing him my arm was probably the hardest thing I had ever done in my life. In the early evening light, the enormous bruise left by the stinger's impact was a barbell-shaped shadow.

Our eyes met. One second, two, ticked by. I was water, held together by clothes. He let out a long growl, followed by a sigh.   "You are very lucky.”  
  
Trembling, I bent and collected my jacket.  
  
“You also seem to bruise very easily.”  
  
My response surprised me with its defensiveness. “I’m pale. Bruises show. Always been like that. So what?” I was shaking now, shaking bad. My first “battle” and I’d almost bought it. What I felt during that night in the stolen SUV – that feeling of just wanting to stop – hit me again hard.  
  
Quinlan stood quietly with his head slightly cocked, sword point resting on the floor.  
  
I blew my breath out in a woosh. Ran an unsteady hand through my hair.  "Make a deal with me," I said.  

He cocked his head in the other direction.  
  
"If I'm struck, if–" My throat closed and required a round of coughing to free rest of the words. “If I’m stung, then promise me you won't hesitate? Not for a second. No apologies, no words. Just put that goddamn stake gun up to my head and send me to the dark. All right?”  
  
He sheathed his sword, turning towards the door. With his back to me, he said stiffly, “Promises like that are not necessary.”  
  
“Just in case. I wouldn’t want you to get sentimental or anything.”  
  
I could have sworn he flinched. Without another word, he strode away down the hall.  
  
I hurried after him.

  
  
  
____________________________

  
  
  
Gus conducted one last sweep through to double confirm the building was clear. Rational thinking told him his vampire partners had killed every last _strigoi_ but instinct insisted he see for himself. After casing the white-splattered basement, he headed out into the attached parking garage, slipping in unheard.  
  
A strange sight brought him up short behind a crumbling cement piling. He blinked in disbelief.  
  
HotShot had the first aid kid out. Seated on the edge of the cargo area of the Expedition was a weary, blood-spattered Quinlan. He was staring blankly into space while HotShot used gauze to dab at a large laceration on his cheek.  
  
Gus’ brows drew together. In the battles they’d fought together, he seen Quinlan take more than a few hits from the _strigoi_ he so loved to kill. Fucking dude was unkillable. No talon or stinger wound lasted more than a day. The vast net of scars covering his ugly mug was a testimony to his healing abilities.  
  
Gus also knew Quinlan was particular about spacing. Unless he was about to deliver some kind of verbal lashing or corporal punishment, he seldom came within arms reach of another human. Always wary.  
  
Yet here he was, with HotShot kneeling inches from him, allowing her to clean a wound that did not need cleaning.  
  
Gus gave it a beat, then cleared his throat.  
  
Quinlan was standing when Gus moseyed out from behind the column.  
  
“Yo, boss,” he said casually. “I’m all done with my sweep. Ready to get the fuck on with moving back into my city, yeah. What are you two doing?”  
  
“The Hunters are placing the dead on the roof for disposal in the sunlight?”  
  
Gus was no fool. He knew avoidance when he heard it. “Yeah, Mr. Q. Just like they always do.” He peered at Quinlan’s face in mock concern. “You got tagged good this time. One get the drop on you?”  
  
“Not for long,” Quinlan answered flatly.  
  
“That’s gonna leave a mark.”  
  
The black and red eyes regarded him cooly. “What do you want, Augustin?”  
  
Gus backed off, satisfied. “Well, what I want is a big breakfast of chorizo and eggs with some fresh made tortillas, but I don’t think that’s what you mean.”  
  
Quinlan adjusted his blood-splattered clothing. “Get ready to leave. The Hunters will remain here to guard against any returning stragglers and begin constructing our new security measures. We will return to the mine and start the moving process.” He thought for a moment, then added, “And if it is safe, we will stop somewhere to get your precious ‘breakfast’. I will guard the vehicle while you eat. You have both earned your comforts for today.”  
  
Gus smiled, doubly pleased. Comforts, indeed.

  
  
_____________________________________

  
  
  
Quinlan told himself he’d allowed HotShot to attend to his injury so he could investigate her bloodbeat more thoroughly.  
  
The clearing had consumed a lot of his energy. Feeding would be necessary before the night was over. It took a mighty effort to throttle the hungry purring of his stinger with HotShot so near. He was glad for his hoodie, zipped up tight under his chin, hiding the turgid stinger stretching the front of his throat.  
  
He did not want to frighten her away.  
  
The fragility in her was a whisper now. Earlier, it had been louder. Her color, temperature, and scent registered as normal. He had no idea what it meant.  
  
All this had taken maybe a minute.  
  
He’d let her tend to him much longer than that.  
  
She’d cleaned his dried blood using gentle strokes. Her warm breath tickled the hypersensitive healing flesh, causing him to jerk away. She interpreted it as pain and respectfully stopped her ministrations, waiting to see if he wanted her to continue.  
  
Gus’ entrance was a glad interruption. It had been a good reason to get up and put some distance between her slender, pale neck and his twisting, miserable stinger.  
  
Now, as they approached Central Park North, he bade HotShot pull over to the curb. Admonishing the two of them to lock the doors and keep the engine running, he darted off between the trees, tracking the faint heat signature of a lone human.  
  
The man never knew what hit him. Quinlan drank quickly, without relish, mechanically snapping the neck when he was done. It was the same routine he had followed every two to three days for the last two thousand years. The blood meal rapidly absorbed into every part of his ancient body. For a few hours, there would be painless calm, until the inexorable thirst and ache returned.  
  
He heard their voices ringing out into the night. They’d rolled the down the front windows and were animatedly discussing where to eat, their profiles sharp and backlit. Easy targets. They had so much to learn.  
  
Shaking his head, he got in and gave them both a disgusted look.  
  
HotShot was unapologetic. “Couldn’t take the Hunter fumes. Hey, your face already looks better.” Her smile reminded him of another smile from long ago.  
  
His irritation vanished. It was replaced by a warm invisible rush which started in his chest, then flowed up his neck to spread hotly across his face.  
  
The Expedition pulled out into the street with a roar. Cold, clean air flooded the vehicle.  
  
Quinlan kept his window open.  
 


	6. Part 2: Acceleration - Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinlan is anxious to leave the mine and move the Ancients back into Manhattan. His sloppy, undisciplined Sun Hunters test his patience. HotShot gets a new weapon and makes a bad joke in the process. An unexpected houseguest is discovered and a serious disagreement ensues.

A faint light burned in the top floor of the admin building.  
  
Quinlan, pulling the stolen panel truck up against the north wall, saw it and rattled his stinger in annoyance. The light was too weak for human eyes to see, but to him, it shone like a beacon.  
  
He slammed the truck into park as the Hummer shot by, heading too fast into the underground garage. There was a bang and squeal of metal as the big vehicle caught an inch of doorframe.

So much for covert ops.  
  
The tired Hunters were rabid with hunger. Quinlan fought to keep control, the truck’s steering wheel groaning in his grip. Like unruly horses, he could feel them snorting and tossing their hooded heads as he made them park the vehicle, wipe it clean of corrosive blood and unload their weapons. Only when the tasks were done did he let go of the wheel and them. Released, the Hunters tore off to the lower levels, heading for the chamber pen where the last of the livestock cowered.  
  
The steering wheel was bent.  
  
Quinlan made a rueful noise, dropping his hands into his lap.  
  
Time was growing scarce. The breakdown of societal infrastructure had gained dangerous momentum. A semblance of order still remained in Manhattan, but in the semi-rural areas of Pennsylvania, more lights were off than on, front doors hung open, and cars were abandoned everywhere.  
  
Abandoned, like the panel truck. Or so he’d thought. Peering into the cab, he’d failed to hear the truck driver’s stealthy approach. The gun barrel pressing against the base of his skull had quickly refocused his attention. The driver’s alcohol-laden blood had made a bitter meal.  
  
His masters, the Ancients, sensed the arrival of their transport and were mostly pleased.  
  
The fact that they were awake was a testimony to the severity of the situation. Wheels put in motion decades ago had been turning without effort, up until the dead plane landed.  Now, all that careful planning, all those artfully orchestrated human upheavals and treaties, all was at risk. The Master threatened everything.  
  
Quinlan got out of the truck and stretched, stinger extending slightly out of his mouth as he did so. They would prevail. They always had, with the help of their Sun Hunters.  
  
And he would have his day of reckoning.  
  
But first, that careless light.  
  
He took the stairs two at a time, cat-silent, and emerged into Gus and HotShot’s “camp.” In a structured military environment, he would have never let such a thing exist. Quinlan’s camps had always been swept clean, all tents carefully maintained and patched, military materiel neatly stored. This was a disgrace. There were no security measures in place. The floor was strewn with old documents, rubbish and dead leaves. An open box of dry cereal promised to bring vermin. These two would have ranked lower than the luggage boys by the time he got done dressing them down for their multitudinous infractions.  
  
He shook his head slowly. They were all he had.  
  
Gus was snoring on his cot.  A bag of foul-looking chips gaped open on his chest. His right hand loosely cradled the bag, fingers orange with crumbs. His other hand dangled off the cot edge, a glossy magazine open beneath it. Unbecoming photos of nude women decorated the pages, lit by the small electric lantern burning nearby.  
  
Quinlan sighed and stooped, flipping the magazine closed. He realized the cover was worse than the spread and settled for pulling Gus’ discarded vest over it. Then he quietly clicked off the lamp.  
  
HotShot’s transgression was far more serious. Her heavy sword lay scabbarded on a table far from where she slept. Her firearm was next to it. There would be no chance to get to her weapons in time should they be attacked.  
  
Quinlan sighed again.  
  
Sensing his warmth, HotShot turned towards him. The movement caused her blanket to slide off her shoulder and puddle on the floor. A little whimper escaped her and in her sleep, she began to shiver. Quinlan lifted and skillfully repositioned it, careful not to wake her.  
  
Such a simple and familiar thing to do. He paused, his hand lightly resting on her shoulder. His dilated eyes were miles away, seeing not dingy office but graceful Roman tapestries in a stuccoed cellar. His ears did not hear HotShot’s soft breathing, but that of another, a similar enough sound. His tingling palm registered warm female flesh, and that sensation was just as he remembered.  
  
Very, very carefully, he lifted his hand up and away, fingers curling into a tight fist. Then stood, shuddering.  
  
A few scattered papers drifted about in the swirl of his silent leaving.  
  
  
  
_____________________________  
  
  
I dreamt of a lion with ebony eyes.  
  
It burned like the sun. Proud and silent. I felt judged by its compelling gaze, but also protected.  
  
Alone on a hillside, it stood looking down at me. It was early morning, the sky streaked pink. I was standing at the edge of a long, straight road, my back to the cars rushing by.  
  
I wanted to go to the lion but I could barely move my limbs. I toppled down on hands and knees, dragging myself across the ground. When I found the strength to look up, the lion was gone. In its place, a gleaming sword quivered in the tall grass, its point jammed into the earth.  
  
I reached out for the sword but instead wrapped my arms around myself.  
  
And fell into nothingness.  
  
I woke with a gasp, bolting up off my cot, panting.  
  
In his sleep, Gus mumbled, “Stop makin' fuckin’ noise, Crispin.”  
  
Outside, daybreak teased the dirty windows with purple light. I guessed we’d been asleep for maybe three hours. Our final marathon of packing had kept us up until very late and as I stood, my body balked at being vertical again so soon. Running a hand over the back of my neck, I realized I was soaked with perspiration. Whether from a night sweat or the dream, I could not tell.  
  
The sensation of falling was still strong. Groaning, I sat back down.  
  
“Crispin, you fuggin' _puto_ , shaddap,” Gus slurred.  
  
Something wasn’t right. Something about the room.  
  
Not danger. Disturbance. Minor, but there, somewhere. My eyes darted about, open wide, unblinking. Look, I said to myself. _See_.  
  
The lantern was off.  
  
And my sword was gone.  
  
“What the hell?” My bare foot brushed against something cold. A curled leaf, still gleaming with moisture. The rising sun cast just enough light into the room to shine weakly on wet bootprints tracking across the vinyl tile floor.  
  
I thought about waking Gus but one look at his worn-out face decided me. Last night, he had noticed I was flagging and shouldered much more than his share of the heavy work. He’d half-joked: “You get any whiter and you’re gonna give Mr. Q a run for his money.”  
  
I would let him sleep. I dressed quietly, grabbed gun and flashlight, and followed the serrated bootprints down into the mine.  
  
In the main corridor linking the admin building to the tunnels, the prints fizzled out. I was wondering what to do when a little puff of cool air rose gooseflesh on my clammy skin. Down underground, air tended to be stale. The only times it swirled freshly was when a door was open. Alarmed now, I hurried ahead.  
  
The door to the garage was ever so slightly ajar. Pallets, boxes, piles: all in order – all except that sloppy open door. I eased through it. The tang of hot engine tickled my nose; the vampires had returned not too long ago. One Hummer was parked crossways, a huge scrape coiling down the passenger side, rear tire flat. The garage door was bent, light spearing in through the gap. I guessed the two were interconnected.  
  
A shadow broke the light. Someone – or something – outside.  
  
Gun at the ready, I approached the exterior man door and peered out into the pastureland. A large panel truck was parked against the side of the building, the knee deep grass flattened by its tires. Quinlan stood in front of it, his back to me. He held up one hand, acknowledging my presence.  
  
Bands of dawn streaked the sky in gray and pink. For a moment, I was back in the strange dream, crawling up the grassy hillside and then falling… falling. With one hand, I steadied myself on the wall of the building.  
  
“Quinlan, what are you doing?”  
  
“Watching the sunrise.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because after today, we will be in enemy territory and moments of peace will be hard to come by.”  
  
His clothing was splattered with _strigoi_ blood, the fabric already deteriorating. White skin showed through the many rents: forearms, shoulder and thigh glowing pale the brightening dawn. Curls of vapor streamed from the tears. I grew concerned.  
  
“You should come inside. Your skin is smoking.”  
  
He shrugged. “It is just steam.”  
  
But he turned and came inside with me anyway, shutting the door quietly behind him.  
  
He said, “You look very tired. Why are you awake?”  
  
“I had a weird dream and woke up to discover my sword is missing. I think you took it.”  
  
With a raised brow, he replied, “An interesting conclusion.”  
  
I gave his wet boots a pointed look. “Not so much considering you left footprints everywhere. Dry your feet off next time if you don’t want to get caught.”  
  
A ripple of laughter. “You are learning. That is good.” He made a pleased sound. “Come. I have something for you.”  
  
Several large crates sat in the rear of the garage. Three were empty. Another was closed but not sealed. Quinlan shoved the heavy lid back like it was nothing, rummaged inside and pulled out a bolt of dark green cloth. He presented it to me. A soft purr emanated from his chest and he dipped his head down, almost as if bowing. _Take it._  
  
I took the bundle from him, the fabric falling away. The slender curve of an Arabian scimitar gleamed. The mirror-fine silver blade had a wicked point and was beautifully balanced. As I tested it, the purr coming from Quinlan’ chest deepened. The sudden sensuality of the sound struck me. My response to it was visceral and completely unexpected. Panic welled. I quashed the moment with sarcasm.  
  
“Most guys start with flowers, you know.”  
  
His purr cut off abruptly. I heard him suck in his lips in muted frustration. His telepathic tone became stern. _Do not break it or lose it. There will not be another._  
  
“Okay.”  
  
_Keep it with you. At all times._  
  
“I will.”  
  
_Now go back to bed._  
  
With that, he turned away and began sealing up the crate.  
  
I didn’t leave right away. I’d been a jerk. He’d noticed I’d been struggling with the first sword, provided a superior replacement and my response had been to make a tasteless joke.  
  
“Quinlan.”  
  
Pausing, he made that sensuous purr again.  
  
A shiver ran down my spine. I said, “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”  
  
  
  
_________________________  
  
  
  
It was almost time to blow this joint for good. Gus was very glad. He was sick of coughing, sick of the endless dampness, and really fucking sick of boring, white-bread Pennsylvania. He couldn’t wait to get back to the city full time, to the concrete and brick and asphalt. To the action. To home.  
  
He dug around in his backpack, pulled out a crinkled pack of cookies, then found a quiet spot in the garage and sat down. He deserved a break.  
  
All that was left were the three big crates. Gus was not going to touch those or their contents with a four-hundred foot pole. Quinlan had been digging up dirt all day, filling the bottom third of each box with wet soil. Gus heard the creak of the man-door and watched as the vampire strode in, shovel over his shoulder, his white head streaked with dirt.  
  
From behind Gus, HotShot said, “What’s Quinlan doing?”  
  
“Jesus Christ, don’t fucking sneak up on me like that!” Gus exclaimed.  
  
“Sorry.” She pulled abreast of him, hefting a bundle in her arms. “What _is_ he doing, though?”  
  
“Vamp shit. You don’t wanna know. What do you got?”  
  
A broad smile lit her face. “This? Check it out.”  
  
With care, she laid the bundle down then flipped the cloth back.  
  
When Gus was little, he and his brother had spent countless hours watching TV while their _madre_ worked. Crispin had favored cartoons while Gus preferred movies, the more fantastic the better. One of his favorites had been about a turban-wearing sailor named Sinbad who’d fought all sorts of crazy monsters with two long, curving swords. This sword was straight out of that flick. “Holy shit. Where the fuck did you get _that_?”  
  
“Him.” She nodded in Quinlan’s direction. Her eyes lingered on the vampire just a fraction too long.  
  
Gus couldn’t help but snort. “Oh, I see.”  
  
“What do you mean, _‘Oh, I see’_?”  
  
“Nothing, _amiga_. Nothing at all.”  
  
“Dick.”  
  
She was so easy to wind up. Grinning, he offered her one of his last treats. “Cookie?”  
  
“No, thank you.”  
  
“What, not gluten-free enough for you?”  
  
She turned up her nose. “No, Chips Ahoy are disgusting.”  
  
They both laughed heartily. He helped her strap the sword across her back.  
  
“It fits you well, man,” he said. “Like, perfectly.”  
  
“I’d be a liar if I said I couldn’t wait to use it.”  
  
Gus nodded. “You’re gonna get plenty of chances soon enough. Tomorrow, I’m gonna start recruiting. We ain’t gonna win this war with just this little crew. Soon we start hitting them where it hurts.”  
  
Together, they watched Quinlan work on the crates. Two of the Hunters came to assist him, while the other two headed back into the mine. After a while, HotShot turned to Gus and said, “Do you think it’s possible?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“To win. We’re a little outnumbered, if you hadn’t noticed. Seven of us against–”  
  
“Ten,” Gus corrected.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“There’s ten of us. And three of those count for like, I dunno, a hundred.”  
  
“I don’t follow.”  
  
“The Ancients, man. Quinlan’s bosses. I know he told you about them. Why do you think we got these big ass crates? Elderly-ass vamp mofos won’t move an inch for themselves. Lazy mother–“  
  
A crate lid fell. One of the Hunters squealed in pain.  
  
“Fuckers,” Gus finished. “Sure you don’t want a cookie?”  
  
“Okay.” She took the peace offering and put it in her mouth, chewing with unsavory deliberation. “Have you seen them?”  
  
“Yeah, once.”  
  
“What are they like?”  
  
“Like the ugliest vamp you’ve seen times ten thousand. Big. Old. Real fucking old. They look dead until they open their eyes and stare through your soul like a fucking _lechusa_.” Gus shuddered. If he never laid eyes on those creepy bastards again, he’d be happy. “They’re like… all alien and shit.”  
  
“And we’re putting them in those boxes.”  
  
“Not me. I ain’t touching those fuckers. And you shouldn’t, either.”  
  
From across the room, Quinlan paused in what he was doing and chided them. “Are you two going to sit there for the rest of the evening like Roman nobles watching slaves do the work?”  
  
Gus made a fist and gave Quinlan a dramatic thumbs down.  
  
Quinlan’s expression darkened. “Not funny.”  
  
“Awww, Mr. Q, lighten up.”  
  
The vampire’s eyes narrowed. “Having been on the receiving end of that several times I consider it my right to be offended. Now, both of you go make sure we’re leaving nothing behind.”  
  
“Okay, okay. Chill out, _compa_.”  
  
When they were out in the corridor, Gus shook his head. “The fuck was that about?”  
  
HotShot said thoughtfully, “Shit. I think he might have been a gladiator.”  
  
“No way.” Gus was confident. He’d seen movies; he knew. “That stuff only happened in the sun.”  
  
HotShot made a dubious noise and headed to her right. For a second, Gus thought about stopping her but then remembered he’d locked the door at the furthest end of the hall. It would be okay.  
  
“Hey, Gus!” Her tone was alarmed.  
  
She stood in front of the door and was peering at it. Her body language spoke of danger.  
  
“I cleared that one. It’s cool,” he said as casually as possible.  
  
She said, “I smell ammonia. Fresh ammonia.”  
  
Goddammit. He knew he should have had her go left. “Leave it, _amiga_. There’s nothing in there.”  
  
She was confused by his cavalier response. “Gus, what the fuck? That’s vamp smell.”  
  
“You smell the Hunters.”  
  
“No, I don’t. This is too fresh.”  
  
Gus’ dismay grew. He patted his pants pocket: the ring of keys bulged there. Had he locked the door? Or had that been yesterday, when he’d fed her last? Now he wasn’t sure. He was so tired; all the days ran together.  
  
He started walking towards HotShot, copping as commanding an attitude as he could. “ _Coño_! It’s nothing. This shithole is empty. Don’t be a _perra_. Come on.”  
  
For a moment, he thought he’d been successful. HotShot took two steps towards him, but then jerked to a stop. Her head swiveled around as her right hand came up and over, drawing the new sword. He heard it just as she did: a faint _hssssss_ , coming from inside the room.  
  
Gus let out a yip of blind panic and bolted towards her. “Don’t!” he yelled.  
  
“No, dude, I got it!” She laid her hand on the handle. To his horror, the door opened.  
  
What she saw inside made her gasp and pause, the scimitar point wavering then slowly dropping. It made a small _chink!_ as the tip hit the stone floor. Gus pelted up, but the damage was done.  
  
The hissing inside the room took on a yearning tone.  
  
“My God,” she whispered. “Gus, what is this?”  
  
“It’s my _madre_ ,” he said sadly.  
  
  
  
________________________________  
  
  
Raised voices. Muffled hissing.  
  
Quinlan smoothed the dirt in the crate and did his best to ignore the drama unfolding in the hallway. He hoped the next thing he heard would be that of a sword slicing through _strigoi_ flesh.  
  
Instead, what he got was HotShot’s furious footsteps. He heard her coming from all the way down the corridor. She was angry, a storm front of emotions preceding her. The nearby Hunter sensed her agitation and reacted in defense of its master, swooping in front of HotShot to block her approach. Its mask did little to mute its throaty snarl.  
  
Her voice rang hollowly in the garage. “Quinlan! Tell your dog to back off.”  
  
Quinlan’s brow twitched. The Hunter made a strangled sound and allowed her to pass.  
  
She came at him so fast he thought for a moment she was going to tackle him. Color was high on her cheeks, contrasting sharply against her pale skin. Her sweaty hair was disheveled. She raked it out of her eyes with an angry swipe to stand there glaring at him, breast heaving.  
  
“I want to talk to you.”  
  
He looked at her flatly, waiting to see where this would go.  
  
“I met our houseguest,” she said.  
  
Quinlan remained silent.  
  
“Gus’ mother.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“That’s some fucked-up shit right there, Quinlan.”  
  
He winced at her language.  
  
She ignored his reaction. “You used his mother as leverage. To get him to join you. He told me. That’s cold-hearted as fuck.” Her eyes burned bright. In the short time she’d been with them, she’d become protective of Gus, almost like a mother. He had found it charming up until this point. Now, her wrath was a force he wasn’t quite sure how to address.  
  
He said, “His acceptance of the deal needed to be guaranteed. We ensured he would not refuse.”  
  
“We – you mean, you and the Ancients, right? Not just you. Your bosses. Uh-huh. Nice deal you cut him. Come live in an asbestos-ridden mine and bust your ass killing vampires – which, if you hadn’t noticed appears to be a losing proposition–“ her voice rose – “and at some indeterminate point in time, we’ll let you release your mother. Great terms. Great fucking terms.”  
  
When he didn’t react, she came close and hissed, “You know, I’ve seen a lot of cut-throat shit. I’ve watched people screw each other over for a title or an office or a couple thousand dollars of bonus. But to hang someone’s mother over their head… that’s just dishonorable.”  
  
He bit his lip with his sharp front teeth. “Augustin has proved his loyalty to us and is welcome to release her at any time. He knows this. He is choosing to maintain her in a secure fashion. That is our arrangement.”  
  
“Arrangement with who? You or your bastard masters?”  
  
Those two words cut him.  
  
“Enough!” he snarled. “You know not what you say.”  
  
She thrust her chin up in defiance. “I know that Gus feels like he can’t release her. That she’s all he’s got. That once she’s gone, what’s the fucking point?” She pointed a shaking finger at him. “I also know you may not understand what it’s like, having to consider – offing – someone you love. Well, let me tell you, it’s no walk in the park. It’s not like killing a random vamp. You’re killing part of yourself. You carry that with you forever.”  
  
It took all of Quinlan’s self control not to slap her across the mouth. He put both his hands in the dirt, willing the coolness of it into his body, his mind.  
  
“Are you finished?” he growled.  
  
“Fix it.”  
  
When he spoke, his words were rough with the grit of his anger. “Let that be the last order you give me today, woman.” He pointed at the door. “Now get outside and warm up that truck.”  
  
She went, but on her own terms. Slowly. Glaring. Unafraid of his wrath.  
  
And right.  
  
He closed his eyes and called the Hunters to him.  
  
  
  
____________________________________

  
  
The cool night air felt good on my hot face.  
  
I was angry. So, so angry. Angry like when I discovered a senior leader fucking over a newbie, taking advantage of eagerness and naiveté to further their own ends. Maybe this was less Machiavellian than those instances, but still, it smacked of similar intent. In my career, I might have been cold, practical, and perhaps too candid at times, but I had never been predatory.  
  
I felt like we’d both been used.  
  
I understood now why Gus had looked at me with such anguish the day I’d released my SO. While I’d been carrying out my business like an item on a to-do list, his chained, rag-wrapped, duct-taped mother was standing in a puddle of her own piss, slowly starving.  
  
It was full on night and not impossible that wild _strigoi_ could be nearby. Being outside was unsafe. I got in the cab of the panel truck just as the main garage door was forced up with a screech. The suspension bounced as one of the vampires stood on the back bumper to pull out the ramp.  
  
The truck settled under a heavy cargo.  
  
Gus got in on the passenger side and sat quietly, fingering his hat brim.  
  
“I can’t believe he used her to coerce you,” I said angrily.  
  
“ _Amiga_ , he didn’t.” Gus had said something similar while I had goggled at his hissing mother.  “I told you. It wasn’t him, it was _them_.”  
  
“Still.”  
  
“If you’d met them, you’d understand. Quinlan was just following orders.”  
  
“Feh. He said you had an arrangement.”  
  
Gus drew random shapes in the dust on the dashboard. “He’s been good to me, man. He fucking gets it. He knows it’s hard.”  
  
“How? How could he know?” I leaned my forearms on the curiously bent wheel, squeezing the bridge of my nose. Quinlan’s calculated composure of earlier spoke of anything but empathy.  
  
A light touch on my shoulder made me turn. Gus’ face was sad but earnest. “Listen, I know you’re pissed. I know you want to watch out for me. I respect that, _amiga_. But man, this one’s on me. It’s my choice to keep her. It’s like, the least I can do for her now. She always took care of me, even when I didn’t want it or didn’t even realize she was doing it. Now it’s reversed – she doesn’t really understand, but I do – and it makes me feel better.”  
  
The childlike purity of his logic touched me. I rubbed my hand over my mouth. “So what are we going to do? Take her with us?”  
  
“That’s the plan. I’m gonna come back tomorrow and get her.”  
  
After a moment, I said, “I’ll help you.”  
  
Gus’ relieved expression made my heart ache. I started the truck.  
  
We both jumped when a vampiric shriek cut through the air. Gus flew out of the cab, shirttails flapping. I remembered just in time to yank my sword out from behind the seat before I ran after him.  
  
Two of the Hunters were hauling Gus’ mother through the garage.  
  
Gus was horrified. “No, you _putos_!” he shouted. “Not yet, put her back!”  
  
One Hunter stopped, masked head turning towards Gus. The other kept going. The disorganized movement allowed Gus’ mother to twist in their grip, breaking it. They were _strigoi_ , but so was she, fully mature with the first hints of wattle blossoming along her bare neck. And whereas the Hunters were controlled, almost robotic, she was wild with need for her Dear One.  
  
Her taloned hands clawed at the tight turban of rags taped around her head.  
  
“Mama, no!”  
  
Gus had his hand on his gun where it stuck out of the waistband of his pants. He did not draw.  
  
Quinlan was nowhere to be seen. Neither were the other two Hunters.  
  
I wasn’t sure what to do.  
  
“Gus!” I cried.  
  
His mother heard me and pitched forward towards my voice. A wet, hungry growl surged from her swollen throat. I held out the sword with both hands.  
  
“Don’t!” Gus slammed into me. I went down on one knee, still warding with the blade.  
  
The frantic vampire recoiled, sensing the silver. Neither of the Hunters would come near, either.  
  
Where was Quinlan? Scrambling up, I ran for the exterior door and tried to lower it to keep her contained inside. It stuck.  
  
When I looked back, I realized Gus was in big trouble. His mother was advancing. He was backing up towards me, his hands out, but no gun in either. “Mama, no,” he pleaded, his voice broken and weak. “Mommy, please. I know you can hear me. Don’t make me do this.”  
  
“Quinlan!” I screamed. “Where the fuck are you?”  
  
I shot a glance at the panel truck just in time to see the driver’s side door close. I recognized the glove that pulled it shut.  
  
“Goddammit!” I ran back towards Gus and got in between him and his mother. She rattled and clicked, her face mostly uncovered now, stinger poking redly from her gash of a mouth. The hunger in her eyes was apocalyptic.  
  
“Gus, get in the truck! I’ll hold her off.”  
  
“Don’t you kill her!” Gus' voice was high and fearful, like a little boy’s.  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
She followed us out into the night, lumpen silhouette stark and backlit. Hissing. Calling. I felt the heat of a Hunter behind me, heard it get up into the back of the truck. Another quick flash of warmth told me the second had also gotten in. I had a sneaking suspicion the other two were already in the cab with Quinlan.  
  
Gus was standing in the middle of the road, easy to spot in the bright moonlight. He expression said his world was ending. Brush crackled on either side. All the light and noise had drawn company.  
  
“Gus, get in the truck, now!”  
  
I took a loose swing at his mother. She recoiled, drew in her chest, bosom coming up and stretching her dress tight, then let fly with her stinger. It snapped to full extension a foot from my face. I did not counterattack.  
  
Two loud bangs split the night. White blood began to ooze from a hole in her chest and one in her shoulder. She dropped to all fours, snarling like a dog.  
  
And in a rustle of brush, she was gone.  
  
His chest heaving silently, Gus lowered his gun.  
  
I ran to him, tugging at his sleeve. There was noise: clicking, purring, growling everywhere around us. “Gus, come on. We have to go. It’s not safe anymore.”  
  
He looked at me like he didn’t know who I was. Moonlight turned his tears to silver. “We gotta go get her… get her back.”  
  
“No, we don’t,” I said. “She’ll find you. You know she will. Now, come on, we have to go.”  
  
I could feel many _strigoi_ eyes on us. Using both hands, I pushed Gus towards the panel truck, not stopping until we were both up over the deck. The Hunter nearest the door pulled it shut using the webbed loop.  
  
I banged on the back wall. “All right, Quinlan you bastard, let’s go!” But I was more sad than angry. Like Gus’ simple logic of earlier, what had happened also made sense. Now, the natural order of things had been re-established.  
  
Quinlan put the truck in gear. Everything but us was lashed securely; we all scrabbled for purchase as it lurched forward. After a few moments, we bumped up onto the smooth highway. In my mind’s eye, I imagined the mine slowly fading into the distance, Gus’ mother in the grass, staring after her son.  
  
She would come for him. I hoped he would be ready.  
  
My flashlight found Gus crouching as far away from the big crates as possible. He was sniffling and muttering. After I moment, I caught what he was saying: the rosary. I crept over to him and put my hand over his.  
  
“I’m such a fuck up,” he moaned. “I failed her… again.”  
  
“Shhhhh.”  
  
“I did, man. I fucking failed. I fucking let her down. That’s all I ever did in life; let her down.”  
  
I felt terrible for him. “Gus, don’t.”  
  
“It’s true!” He pulled away, inconsolable. “She tried so hard to do us right, me and Crispin. But she had to work so much. She couldn’t be there. She had to feed us. We were such assholes to her.” His eyes were overflowing. “She cried so hard when I went to jail.”  
  
“You’re being too hard on yourself.”  
  
Gus flung his arm out wide. “No, I’m not! Now she’s running around out there. She’s out with _them_. She’s gonna fucking kill people. She’s going to make more vampires. I should have released her, man. I couldn’t even give her that.”  
  
There wasn’t anything to say.  
  
The Hunters stood with their backs to the crates, impassive.  
  
You fucking dickheads, I thought at them. I hoped Quinlan could hear me.  
  
Gus was bereft. “How did you do it?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“How did you do it, that day at your house? How did you just walk up to your man and stake him like he was nothing?”  
  
I felt like I’d been slapped. “I– He wasn’t… nothing. He wasn’t nothing at all.”  
  
“Then how, man?”  
  
“I don’t know. I just did. I had to.”  
  
And just like that, my inner defenses came down. All the bravado, the control, the calculated anger and careful management of emotions was over. Here it was. The pain. Unboxed. Unsecured. Gus’ anguished questions smashed everything open inside of me. I put a hand over my mouth in a last ditch effort to stem the tide.  
  
“How did you do it?” Gus was half-screaming now.  
  
“I said, I don’t know!” I screamed back, sobbing. “All I know is that he died in a pool shed! Do you hear me? A motherfucking pool shed! And I killed him and left him there. I left him!” Racked by all my pent up emotions, I put my head down and wept like I had never wept before. I wept for my SO. I wept for myself. I wept for the world and for all that was lost and for the brokenhearted young man huddled next to me.  
  
“Gus.” I sat up, shuddering. “I’m so sorry. About your _madre_. About everything.”  
  
“I’m sorry, too,” he said in a tiny voice.  
  
I held out my arms. He rushed into them.  
  
I took this lost boy to my chest and squeezed him tight. Like his _madre_ must have done, when he was little, before time and circumstance stamped out the tender things in their lives.  
  
“It will be okay, _amigo_ , I promise,” I whispered.  
  
The truck swayed down the road. The Hunters stared forward like the biological robots they were. Gus and I were not robots. We were two people who cried for all we had lost, holding on to each other like the world would come asunder if we ever let go.


	7. Part 2: Acceleration - Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gus and HotShot enjoy their return to civilization. Quinlan struggles with memories and emotions long set aside. As the vampire apocalypse threatens to devour the city, Quinlan enlists HotShot to help him with something that crosses boundaries on both their parts.

Gus wished his mother was there to see him.  
  
The dark mahogany dining table in HotShot’s new apartment probably cost as much as Guadalupe Elizalde made in a year. Gus’ tattooed forearms rested on the smooth wood, making for a stark contrast: street versus society. Street was currently winning. Next to the gold-rimmed china on the table were Gus’ hat, two handguns, and HotShot’s feet. One of the many bottles of wine they had found sat mostly empty in the center.  
  
They’d been told to select units which to call their own. Quinlan’s only requirement had been that the apartments be high up but below the fifteenth floor where the Ancients were being installed. As Gus opened up 9A, he’d known instantly it was the one. The TV was at least seven feet across.  
  
“What are you going to do with that?” HotShot had asked, incredulous.  
  
“Play GTA until my eyes burn out,” had been Gus’ reply.  
  
But the seven foot TV could not ease their hungry bellies. The unit HotShot selected had a fully stocked kitchen, so they'd gone to ground there, stuffing themselves. Now, well on his way to being wasted, Gus gestured with his wine glass towards the living room. This place was white on white on white, except for the table and the paintings. And even those were mostly one color.  
  
Gus indicated the largest canvas. “The fuck. Why?”  
  
“Because Rothko, that’s why.”  
  
The name meant nothing to him. “I don’t get you,” he said.  
  
HotShot was definitely feeling the wine. Color burned pink across her cheeks and nose. “You’re not supposed to. In a pre-vampire world, we would have never met.”  
  
“Unless I was stealing your shit.”  
  
“And then I’d be putting your ass in jail.”  
  
Gus snorted. “Doesn’t scare me. Already been.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
Gus was drunk, but not drunk enough to be free of self consciousness. The manslaughter rap was more than he wanted to explain. “Stupid shit.”  
  
“Me too,” she admitted.  
  
_“Qué?”_  
  
“Jail. For stupid shit.”  
  
“No way, _amiga_. Don’t fucking lie to me.”  
  
“I’m serious.” HotShot leaned back in her chair, an unsteady grin creeping across her face. “When I was in high school. Just for one night.”  
  
“For what? Talking too loud in the library?”  
  
“A little worse than that. I destroyed my school’s football field as part of my senior class prank. I took a friend’s Jeep and did burnouts all along the fifty yard line. I would have gotten away but I churned up so much mud that I got stuck. The cops just waited on the sidelines for me to get out. I spent all night handcuffed to a bench until my father came and sweet-talked the chief of police into letting me go. I had to sell my car to pay for the damage.”  
  
Gus busted out laughing. He could absolutely see it. “I knew I liked you for a reason. You ain’t no girly girl.”  
  
“I’ll drink to that.” She raised up her glass.  
  
They tossed back their wine and sat in comfortable drunk silence for a while.  
  
Gus’ mind drifted with the alcohol in his veins. Never in his life had he expected to see the inside of one of these pads, let alone live in one. It had taken the loss of everything to get him here. A strange sense of sad elation stirred in his breast. For a moment, he felt he might cry again – as if he hadn’t just done a lifetime’s worth of that on the way here. Goddamn. Where had it all come from? Mile after mile, he’d bawled, having it out on HotShot’s shoulder. She had finally cried, too. That, in and of itself, had been a relief. Her stony resolve sometimes made him uneasy. With Quinlan it was one thing. Dude had been alive for a _long_ time and probably unlearned how to feel hundreds of years ago. But with HotShot, it just didn’t seem normal.  
  
After a moment, it came to him. A few times, he’d brought his madre lunch where she worked in Harlem Hospital’s critical care ward. The thousand-yard stares of the sick and dying had freaked him out. In HotShot, he sometimes saw that same eerie stillness.  
  
He regarded her. “How you doin’, man?”  
  
“I’m all right, Gus.”  
  
“Thanks, you know… for the truck.”  
  
“Goes both ways.”  
  
“And for not killing my mama.”  
  
She darkened. “Gus, I’m not sure you should thank me for that. She’s going to come for you, now.”  
  
“I know.” He had thought about it at length during the suffocating ride. As his tears dried, his resolve had hardened. With that hardening came a relief he hadn’t been expecting to feel. “I’m okay with it. When she comes, I’ll be ready. As much as it will kill me to, I will.” A definitive gesture with his glass echoed his feelings. “It’s the right thing to do.”  
  
“You know I’ll help you, if you need it.”  
  
“I know, _amiga_.” Gus put his glass down, then got unsteadily to his feet. “You know what else is the right thing to do? Let’s see if this building still has hot water. I don’t know about you, but I want a fucking shower.”  
  
“I second that motion.” HotShot levered herself up, then staggered. Gus caught her under the armpits.  
  
“Lightweight,” he slurred.  
  
She pushed off him. “Can you hear yourself? You’re not much better.”  
  
They reeled together towards the bathroom. Unsurprisingly, the bath was also white from floor to ceiling. The centerpiece was a glassed-in shower that came off like some kind of weird display case. Gus was convinced. This crib have been owned by a high-end dope dealer. It was the only way to explain all the white.  
  
HotShot fiddled with the fancy shower knobs in the slow, careful way of the truly shitfaced. Gus shook his head. Why rich people had to have everything so motherfucking complicated–  
  
Water shot out. They both squealed, leaping back. Muffled banging of pipes belied the age of the building.  
  
Slowly, the glass surround started to fog.  
  
Gus stuck a hand under the spray. “Hell yeah!” he hollered. It had been weeks since he’d felt the delight of hot water. Celebrating, he slung an arc of water across the bathroom. Most of it caught HotShot in the face.  
  
“Oh, is that how it is, Gusto?” Blinking water out of her eyes, she grabbed a showerhead off a hook, aiming the stream right at him. “Take that!”  
  
_“Chingado!”_ Gus dodged, then took up his own hand-held showerhead. “I’ll teach you not to disrespect a Latin King!”  
  
A full on water-war ensued. Soon they were both laughing hysterically. Gus worried for a moment they were making too much noise, then decided he didn’t care. This was the balance to the grief of the truck. This was joy: pure, simple and silly. It had been a long time since Augustin Elizalde had the occasion to be joyful. Joy was not acceptable on the street, or in the joint, or when storming a nest of vampires. But joy could be here, in this ridiculous China White apartment, playing super soaker with his unlikely friend. Lightness filled his soul, and it wasn’t just from the wine.  
  
Sides hurting, they called a truce. Grabbing thick white towels, they made clumsy efforts to dry themselves. When they both failed, they hugged each other and said good night.  
  
Downstairs in 9A, Gus tossed off his wet clothes. The feeling of smooth, clean bedsheets on his skin was heavenly. Society could win this one. After saying a heartfelt prayer for his _madre_ , he closed his eyes and slept like a baby.

  
  
___________________  
  
  
  
  
Manhattan was alive with the undead.  
  
Quinlan could feel them sensing him. A tickle of recognition that stopped just short of connection.  Like an itch which could not be scratched.  
  
Most lost interest quickly. A few less hungry ones focused on his position at the edge of the building’s granite-lipped roof. He remained still and eventually they forgot he was there. The confusion and pain of their transformation made them blind to the danger he presented.  
  
Their building was buttressed by two taller ones, side windows marching up another ten stories past their fifteen. Quinlan’s sharp eyes caught curious movement off to his left; a figure backlit by the blue strobe of a television. He saw long, flowing hair and the smooth curve of waist: a woman, barely dressed. She was standing with her hands on the glass, staring down at him.  
  
As with his _strigoi_ half-brethren, he felt a flicker of familiarity from her. A gust of wind kicked up, catching his hood and blowing it back. He was able to count to four before she withdrew, frightened away by his white head and pointed ears.  
  
A foot in both worlds, belonging to neither, Quinlan faced into the rushing wind.  
  
Down the street, two immature _strigoi_ stalked prey which had trapped itself on a high ledge. They tackled the prey and each other, then fell snarling to the street below. Several more came running, the tangle of limbs on the sidewalk morphing into a feeding frenzy of lashing stingers. The commotion drew the woman back to the window. Quinlan noticed she was tall, her hair dark.  
  
He allowed himself to think about it. That quiet time when there had been no _strigoi_ plagues, no military conquests, no need for a General who fought only at night and could not be killed. The time before the Ancients, the time before he’d accepted what he was. The time when he’d done his best to be just a man, a provider, a father and a husband.  
  
It hurt to remember but there was beauty in it, too.  
  
Upon first seeing him, the slave girl had reacted much like the woman in the window: fearful but intrigued. After being delivered to his villa, she hid with her daughter behind a column in the peristyle while he settled with the slave trader.  
  
“One child, but the birth has not broken her overmuch,” the trader had said.  
  
Quinlan remembered frowning.  
  
“Oh, come now,” the man scolded. He knew what Quinlan was. “I go to all this trouble to bring you good product and now you make me wonder if I should have brought a boy?”  
  
The girl child was clutching her mother’s skirts, dark eyes wide. Quinlan was filled with warm fondness as he recalled how she’d reacted when his lips had twitched in a smile. After burying her face in the skirting for a moment, she’d peeked back out, innocent and bright with curiosity.  
  
“Drink them or keep them, it’s your choice.” The man shrugged. “At least keep the woman. She’s good with her hands.”  
  
Quinlan’s response had been disgusted. “I will keep them both, and well.” Striding to the slave, he’d grasped her gently by the elbow then hustled her and her child into his house, leaving the chuckling trader and his perverse assumptions.  
  
Quinlan had done his best with them, his very best, and for some time, it had been more than good.  
  
He could hear the bloodbeat of the woman in the window. The crimson thrum was tantalizing. There had not been time to feed since arriving at their new home. And even had she been within reach, he would not have taken her.  
  
He did not drink women, not since he had known the love of one.  
  
A shadow rose up behind the figure in the window.  
  
Quinlan felt a bolt of adrenaline surge through his body.  
  
Husband or lover, the _strigoi_ drained her quickly, then let her limp body drop with animal carelessness. The blank red eyes fixed on Quinlan for a second – _flicker_ – before slinking away.  
  
Quinlan stood panting. There would have been no way to save this anonymous woman.  
  
Just as there had been no way for him to save his family so long ago.  
  
He was suddenly overcome with anxiety. _Strigoi_ nearby paused in their murdering, lifting bloody heads as they sensed that which was like them but not. Quinlan felt their attention but ignored it. He was listening for another bloodbeat, this one familiar.  
  
There.  
  
No. The ejection volume was too strong: Gus, most likely asleep.  
  
Scanning deeper, he detected water running somewhere in the building. The uncharacteristic anxious feelings churning in his abdomen increased; running water made him deeply uneasy. The combination was overwhelming. His emotional flatline of the last several centuries was gone. It had been replaced by memories and urges and desires thought to be banished ten lifetimes ago.  
  
A vampire came clambering up over the ledge, red eyes alight with hunger. It saw him and charged.  
  
Quinlan caved in its head with one mighty blow.  
  
Then he rushed away into the building, not completely sure of what he was about to do.  
  
  
  
  
_________________________  
  
  
  
  
With a hundred dollar towel, I mopped up the water on the floor. We had made an epic mess.  
  
My dirty, wet clothes dribbled rivulets of gray on the white tile. Disgusting. I stripped, then stood naked and still quite tipsy before the mirror.  
  
My hair resembled bad taxidermy. It had never been great, medical treatments had reduced it to mediocre, and subsistence living had destroyed it. Beneath it, my face was washed out, the neck supporting it nothing but cords. I ran my hands from jaw to clavicle, feeling lymph nodes, noting which ones were larger than before. If I turned my head to the side, I could see some bulging underneath the skin like a short string of pearls. Ribs, hipbones and knees jutted. On the left side of my chest, the poorly healed Hickman catheter scar was a puckered faux gunshot wound. I would make up a story about it and see if Gus would bite.  
  
“Fuck,” I said to my reflection. The dirty ghost in the mirror stared back, drunk and dour.  
  
Outside the bathroom door was the bag in which I’d stashed my meager possessions. I rummaged through it, coming up with a handful of orange bottles: the pills scavenged from my house. I had not touched any of the medications – not yet.  I lined them up in a row on the counter. Their presence was both reassuring and sobering.  
  
I would not let myself cry again. I got into the shower and scalded the misery out of my system. When I emerged pink and steaming, I felt a little better.  
  
The noise happened as I was drying myself off with another hundred-dollar towel. It sounded like the apartment door being opened. Grabbing up the previous owner’s bathrobe, I padded out barefoot, calling, “Gus? You okay, _mi amigo?”_  
  
The tall, dark figure standing in middle of the living room was not Gus. Not at all.  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ!”  
  
Quinlan’s eyes ticked to my half-open robe. I snatched it closed with clumsy hands.  
  
“You really should lock the door,” he chided. “This place is secure, but not impenetrable.”  
  
“No shit.” I put my back to him and tied the belt, rattled and embarrassed. “I assume you’re just making your rounds? Checking up on your charges?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Scaring the shit out of me?”  
  
“I’m sorry I frightened you.”  
  
Not knowing what else to do, I motioned for him to sit. He lowered himself gingerly onto the ivory leather sofa, black, bulky form completely out of place amongst the simplistic decor. I perched on the edge of a round chair. He seemed agitated.  
  
“What’s the matter?” I asked.  
  
A rattle escaped him as he fiddled with his hoodie zipper. From under the hood, his hollow gaze darted about the room. He did not answer my question. “Interesting choice. Furnishings seem well made.” He frowned at the paintings. “The art is strange.”  
  
“Jesus, everyone’s a critic. You and Gus both.”  
  
“And how is he?”  
  
I shrugged, gripping my bare knees. “Okay. Relieved. I don’t think he realized what a weight it all was. He’ll make the right decision when she comes. We talked it out.”  
  
“It is… good he has you.” Quinlan crossed his legs and looked everywhere but at me.  
  
This was the first we’d spoken since our heated exchange in the mine. The air vibrated with tension. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was something else… all I knew is that I was suddenly desperate to dispel it. Digging my toes into the dense rug for courage, I said, “Listen, I need to say something. In the truck… I called you a bastard. I know you heard me. I was upset and scared and still really angry and that was a jerk thing to say. I realize now what all that was. It was a brilliant way to put back to how it would be naturally.” A bitter laugh escaped me. We had arrived at a reality where expecting one’s vampirized loved ones to come back was considered natural. “I should have trusted you. I’m sorry.”  
  
He closed his eyes. The lids were very dark. “I have my own apology to give. You were correct in calling out the truth of the situation. I spoke to you harshly for it. I am also sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay.”  
   
His sighing breath had the tiniest bit of purr in it. A palpable wave of relief passed through him and into me. We gave each other faint smiles.  
  
“Will she come soon?” I asked.  
  
He shook his head. “No. We crossed many rivers between the mine and here. It will take her weeks, if not months, to locate Augustin’s signature. Furthermore, while we are in here, the Ancients’ presence masks us from any nearby _strigoi_. By the time she triangulates, all of this may be over.”  
  
I was surprised by his statement. “Really? You think that’s possible?”  
  
“I am working to make it so.”  
  
“So what’s next, then?”  
  
“Augustin’s job is to recruit allies. While we wait for his contacts to respond, we’ll begin clearing nests in widening concentric circles. I have building schematics and a good sense of where the heaviest concentrations are. We’ll start tomorrow.” He got up. “I will take my leave.”  
  
I followed him to the door. “Quinlan, what will you do when all this is done?”  
  
His typically tense posture drooped a little.  
  
“Rest.”    
  
Such fatigue in that one word. There was a sudden vulnerability to him which sang out to me. Uninhibited from the wine, I laid my hand on his arm. A terrible, heartbreaking loneliness burned in his black and red eyes.  
  
He bent forward. I froze. Gentle, hot fingers tucked my wet hair back behind my ears. Then he kissed the top of my head. _Please remember to lock the door._  
  
A rustle of tactical nylon whispered his departure.  
  
I turned the deadbolt hard.  
  
  
  
______________________________________

 

  
  
_Clear the adjoining buildings and bring us food._  
  
Quinlan was ten floors in. The left-side building was an art deco affair with high ceilings and thick walls. Despite the layers of architectural insulation between him and his masters, he could still feel their attention drilling into his skull. Excruciating.  
  
The Sun Hunters had assisted by casing the property earlier, accessing all unlocked units to pull back drapes and blinds, letting in their weapon of light. He’d been impressed by how many they’d been able to lure out into the deadly rays. Now, they were behind him, cleaning up any _strigoi_ that his team missed.  
  
_Clear the building._  
  
He still had not fed. The orders had been relentless. Quinlan began to suspect an ulterior motive in the unending string of tasks set before him.  
  
_Clear it._  
  
Another floor. And another. And another. One of the Hunters went down under a dogpile of naked _strigoi_. It shrieked in pain and rage as talons tore through its armor and into its flesh. White blood spilled. The worms of the Ancients encountered the worms of the Master, recognized each other and tried to join. Quinlan averted his face as he flicked on his UV spotlight, frying the commingling worms.  
  
_Clear._  
  
The wounded Hunter shook off its cloak of burned vampires, hefted the long, thin sword it used and cleaved a path through the remaining _strigoi_. Its injuries appeared minimal. Quinlan was glad. He had brought this one from Japan many years ago and did not want to lose it. With a throaty snarl, the Hunter pelted away down the hall, sensing not more vampires but a bloodbeat. It would feed, repair itself and continue.  
  
Thirst burned in Quinlan, white fire running from his chin to his groin.  
  
_We also require blood._  
  
_If you do not let me feed soon, I will not be of much good to you._  
  
He was answered with silence crafted from aeons of patience.  
  
They began encountering locked doors.  
  
_Clear it all. Bring what you find._  
  
With a hand signal, Quinlan stopped his Sun Hunters as they came up behind him. He did not make any attempt to approximate speech nor did he turn. _Both of you are released. We will finish on our own. Leave. Now._  
  
They left without argument. He waited until he could no longer hear their circulation.  
  
Locked doors began falling beneath the Hunters’ heavy boots. They found a murder, multiple suicides and several elderly who appeared to have died from stress. Towards the top of the building, behind the sturdiest doors, were the surviving cattle. Some had imbibed heavily of alcohol or drugs in their despair. These were killed. The healthy were subdued and slung over shoulders. There was even the prize of a B-positive, the aroma hitting them all like a sledgehammer. That one would be shared.  
  
The massacre was complete and the catch good.  
  
Satisfaction brushed across Quinlan’s mind as the three Ancients shifted their attention to the meals being carried down the stairs. Finally he was free. With a growl, he bent down, his clacking stinger bunched up under his chin. He had saved one for himself, a small adult. It struggled in his grip. Thin, fragile, with a pale, feminine face, it reminded him of another, one who did not struggle when he was near. That, combined with the anticipation of the drink, caused a long-quiescent part of him to stir and unwind.  
  
He opened his mouth.  
  
_Stop._  
  
It took a Herculean effort to drag his half-launched stinger to a halt.  
  
_Bring that, too._  
  
Quinlan knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was punishment.  
  
  
  
_____________________________________  
  
  
  
The knocking on my door started out soft. Then it got louder.  
  
Finally, it turned into hammering.  
  
I looked out the peephole. It was still quite light out. “Wait! I have to draw the curtains," I called. When the room was darkened, I hurried back to the door and opened it.  
  
“My god,” I gasped.  
  
“You have to help me.” Quinlan stood ragged and struggling for breath in the doorway.  
  
“Whatever you need.”  
  
“Go prep a vehicle. We're going out.”  
  
“But the light–”  
  
“It doesn’t matter. Garage. Five minutes.”  
  
Five minutes to ready a vehicle and figure out how to keep two-plus hours of gray daylight off him? Between the short timeframe and his shocking state, I knew this was some kind of emergency. I took off running.  
  
Down in the garage, I made a beeline for the H3 Hummer. I would have preferred the Tesla but its battery was low.  The wall charger lay in a tangle of wires next to it. There hadn’t been time to reinstall it.  
  
He came shuffling just as I was taping a flap of cardboard over the passenger-side window of the H3. I held the door open and had to half-catch him when he failed to swing all the way up into the vehicle. Using my shoulder, I shoved him into the seat and slammed the door. He was cold.  
  
The wan daylight crumpled him into his hoodie once I cleared the confines of the garage. I turned into the shade along the Avenue in an effort to protect him.  
  
“Where are we going and what’s wrong with you?”  
  
“Head out of the city.”  
  
“To where?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Just drive!”  
  
I went the way I knew best – back towards Nazareth and the mine.  
  
The minimal traffic was a boon and a curse. Driving at speed was a cinch, but the lack of other vehicles made the black and chrome Hummer all the more obvious. I was forced to slow, lest I draw attention to our little, as-of-yet unexplained, emergency.  
  
The winter sun was to my right, blocked by most of the cardboard but the windshield was a problem. Quinlan groaned, curled low, a black ammonite.  
  
“I can pull over and you can get in the back.”  
  
“No,” came his muffled reply. “Keep going.”  
  
We blazed through Jersey and crossed into Pennsylvania, heading straight towards the leading edge of a storm front. Gray clouds came together in a dense mat as rain spattered against the windshield. Quinlan unrolled and looked wanly out.  
  
“Quinlan, what are we doing?”  
  
His stinger clicked loudly and he flinched. Instantly, I understood what was wrong with him. “This is a hunt, isn’t it? For food. For you.”  
  
A grunt of agreement.  
  
“Why weren’t you able to take care of this yourself?”  
  
“I was… not allowed.”  
  
It took a minute to unpack the statement.  
  
I said, “By the Ancients.”  
  
Another grunt, this one full of wet stinger sound.  
  
“Are we running from them right now? Are we disobeying them?”  
  
When he turned to me, all I saw was teeth and agonized thirst. My soul shrank. I looked back at the road. “Do I need to worry?”

His expression darkened even further.  
  
_I need you to just drive. I will tell you when to exit._  
  
I drove.  
  
The rain came down hard for a while. The thump of the windshield wipers syncopated with the tormented gurgle of his breathing. Thirty miles passed, then forty. I wondered how much more distance was needed between us and the Ancients.  
  
Dense forest gave way to farmland which tumbled into aged parking lots and industrial outlier buildings of a generic, small Pennsylvanian town.  
  
_Here._ He was clicking and rattling like a broken child’s toy.  
  
I took the exit and followed my instincts. Railroad tracks ahead, and with them, the promise of decline. They did not disappoint. I spied dumpy old houses, complete with dismembered cars in the yards, and then further up ahead, a peeling church. Figures moved in silhouette against the wet clapboard gleaming in the sick light of a sodium vapor lamp. They milled about in the parking lot despite the dribbling rain.  
  
“Afternoon service letting out,” I said aloud.  
  
Quinlan made a strangled sound.  
  
I felt terrible for him. My instinct was to reach over and offer comfort, but I knew if I touched him he would strike and drink me. I settled for asking, “Is this what you want?”  
  
He swallowed audibly.  
  
“I guess that means yes.”  
  
_Hurry. Please._  
  
I passed the church, slowing. Hung a right to start heading around the block. The situation was shifting from dreamlike to all too real. It was one thing to kill vampires. It was quite another to help one feed.  
  
I snatched a glance at him. He was suffering embodied. Balled fists pressed against his thighs. The broad shoulders were hunched forward and his chin was now down, keeping his stinger in check. Eyes screwed shut. Every muscle quivering in pain.  
  
There was no other decision to make: I would see this through.  
  
I rounded the block, coming up on the side of the church lot. The group was dispersing further, the women hurrying away, towards dingy practical sedans from ten years ago.  The men were slower to scatter. A few clustered around the lone light pole in the lot to smoke.  
  
“Pull that cardboard down, if you can.”  
  
Quinlan raised a stiff arm and yanked. The passenger window was freed. I rolled it down using the button on my side.  
  
God help me, I thought with considerable irony, given our destination. The Hummer bounced messily over the apron. The men gave it their attention as I pulled up near the back of the church, creating a triangular space between the church wall and Quinlan’s side of the vehicle. I cracked my window and peered out at the curious men.  
  
I turned to Quinlan. “I’ll say this window is busted and bring one around your side. Make it quick.”  
  
His eyes opened. The red gleam in them told me it would be _very_ quick.  
  
One man was ambling towards us. His arms were crossed over his chest but his expression was friendly enough. He was a big fellow, with a grey-shot beard and yellowing eyes.  
  
“Hey, come round the other side,” I called. “Window’s stuck.”  
  
Either he didn’t hear me or he was more cautious than I thought. As he came up to my window, I leaned forward, blocking his view of the hooded figure slumped in the passenger seat.  
  
“You need something, lady?”  
  
“We’re lost,” I lied. “I need to get to Johnstown.”  
  
“Never heard of it.”  
  
Not surprising, given I’d just made it up.  
  
A rattle escaped Quinlan. A quiet one, but the man heard, and was alarmed.  
  
“What’s up with him?”  
  
“He’s just got that thing that’s going around.”  
  
The man coughed, spittle managing to hit me through the cracked window. “I hear you on that. I got it, too. Well… sorry I can’t help. Good luck to you, miss.” He began to move away.  
  
I scrambled. “Wait! Just tell me how to get back to the 287. I can find my way from there. Come round the other side so I can hear you better. Please?”  
  
He debated.  
  
Quinlan sent a thought into my head: sheer incomprehensible desperation.  
  
I gave the man my best smile.  
  
And he bought it.  
  
Quinlan’s stinger struck him before he even cleared the passenger side mirror. The impact of it was a meaty _WHUP_ that slapped back off the side of the church and echoed across the lot. Everyone froze. Quinlan was sitting up straight now, gripping the man’s collar, downing him in loud, greedy gulps. It was clear to the others that something was amiss. I saw no firearms yet but wasn’t about to be surprised.  
  
I counted one-two-three and slammed the Hummer into drive. I had to slap Quinlan hard on the shoulder to get him to drop the man. There was a flash of fleshy red: Quinlan’s stinger, airborne as it withdrew.  Rubies of blood sprayed from its tip. The man’s body hit the pavement with a dull thud.  
  
When one of the man’s friends ran at us, face a mosaic of rage and disbelief, Quinlan drank him, too.  
  
Predictably, the rest started to scream.  Their horror was harshly real in my headlights. It reached me, kindling a dark excitement in my heart that stretched my lips in a grinning snarl. I’m sure they thought I also was a vampire. The idea didn’t bother me nearly as much as I thought it should.  
  
“Go!” Quinlan bellowed, back to himself again.  
  
The Hummer caught an inch of air as I hurtled off the apron and out into the street. No traffic in this small town, but five blocks up from the church I caught a red light. Quinlan’s window was still open; faint screaming drifted our way. In the rearview mirror, I saw three cars pull into the church lot. The remaining men ran up to them, gesticulating. The two corpses were dark humps on the ground.  
  
I bolted and began weaving through a neighborhood, looking for a way out of the town. Just when I thought I had fucked this one up good, I found a straight road heading south. We were back on the highway in less than ten minutes.  
  
The drive back was as tense as the drive down, but in a different way. Quinlan’s now boiling metabolism filled up the cabin with so much heat I was forced to turn on the AC. There was blood spatter all over the dashboard, its coppery smell being pushed through the cabin by the fan. My own stomach was empty. As the adrenaline wore off,  I realized I was becoming lightheaded and nauseous.  
  
“I’ve got to stop.” I pulled off into the berm, stumbled out into the grass and dry-heaved until the world spun.  
  
I heard him get out. He knelt down on one knee and put his hand on my back as I panted for breath. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Yeah. Yes. Just give me a second.” I coughed and spit onto the grass.  
  
He helped me up. It was full dark now. He seemed better.  
  
“Are _you_ all right?” I asked him.  
  
He nodded, poised dignity restored. Long tendrils of steam curled from his scalp. The translucent tips of his ears were red.  
  
“You don’t need me to get you another one?”  
  
He gave a wry chuckle. “I don’t believe you’d really want to do that, would you?”  
  
I shrugged and turned my face into the soothing breeze. Its caress helped erase some of the unreality of having just assisted in murdering two human beings. “If you needed me to, I would.”  
  
“Two was enough, thank you.”  
  
An owl hooted nearby. He swiveled towards the sound. Darkness hid his vampire traits: the split mouth, the red-black eyes. What I saw was a man in his prime, patrician and virile.  
  
Next thing I knew, he had me by both arms. One moment he was looking into the trees and the next, he was purring into my face. His speed served as a reminder that what I was partnered with was something far beyond a human man. His words were soft yet grave. “I need you to listen to me. What we have done here tonight – I do not know how it will be interpreted should it be discovered.”  
  
“They’ll be angry?” There was no need to be specific. We both knew who ‘they’ were.  
  
“Possibly. Before I came to you, I fed them into a stupor. They make take offense if they realize their banquet was not expressly for their own good.”  
  
“Why were they stopping you from feeding, Quinlan?”  
  
He looked like he was about to explain, then settled for squeezing my arms. As his thumbs brushed back and forth across my biceps, his rolling purr deepened. “You must not speak of this to Gus. After we leave here, we shall not speak of it, either.”  
  
“Will I be in danger if they find out?”  
  
“Not while I am there.”  
  
“But what if you’re not?”  
  
He thought about that for a moment, biting his lip. Up close, I could see his pointed teeth were like razors. “Then lock your door.”  
  
I swallowed thickly and forced myself to nod through my riot of emotions.  
  
Agreement reached, I expected to be released. Instead, he pressed me to his vibrating chest in a tender, yet firm, embrace. His blazing cheek burned against mine. As he spoke, I could feel the stiff corner of his mouth moving against my skin. “Thank you for what you have done.”  
  
I melted into his purrs. My lips touched the dry parchment of his scarred face. It wasn’t quite a kiss. “You are welcome.”  
  
The owl hooted again and took off, the deeper darkness of its rounded shape passing low over our heads. The silent inspection felt like a judgement.  
  
I didn’t care.


	8. Part 2: Acceleration - Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter in Part 2 of "Keys to the Heart."
> 
> Gus gets an important phone call. HotShot is left behind to consider some compelling things. Quinlan is forced to remember some unpleasant parts of his past. The crew discovers they're not the only ones in mid-town Manhattan who have it in for the Master's minions.

The ringing of his cellphone blew Gus out of exhausted sleep. Bleary, he cleared his throat and answered. The exchange was short. When he pressed End, he was grinning from ear to ear.  
  
It was going down. Tonight. And it was going to be bad-ass.  
  
As long as they made the proper entrance. Shock and awe and shit.  
  
The clock said one in the afternoon. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn he’d gone ten rounds in the ring with Ramon and gotten his ass kicked wholesale. Shoulders, biceps and lats ached from swinging the broadsword. Maybe after another six months he’d be used to it, but for now, he was ready to cry like a little bitch. Gus knew he was lucky to just be sore. A particularly clever _strigoi_ had whalloped him with a chair leg, nearly knocking him down and making a meal of him. As he’d been spinning for balance, HotShot had come to the rescue, whacking its head off with her scimitar. Mr. Q had nodded at both of them in approval before turning around to crush a small vampire’s throat with one of his iron-fingered hands.  
  
The last thirty-six hours had been grueling.  Hard work, but good, too. In the darkness of the buildings, with nothing else to focus on other than white bodies and red stingers, Gus was flooded with a sense of accomplishment like never before. Each time his blade thwacked home into a _strigoi_ neck, it felt like he was giving good back to the world. He who had never done much more than take – advantage of the system, things belonging to others, and at the worst of it, a life – he was now repaying that debt.  
  
One dead vampire at a time.  
  
Today, he would make a very large payment against his balance.  
  
But in order to do that, he had to get out of bed first.  
  
He wondered if Mr. Q suffered similar ails after a long battle. Probably not. Q moved with the same speed and simplicity of the best ring fighters, never off balance or over-extended, anticipating his enemies’ every move, sword or fist or stake gun already in position before the target ever got where it was going. The only sounds he made were an occasional rattle or low grunt of effort, typically reserved for when he was dispatching something with his hands. The vampire was smooth and fast. Gus could only hope that one day he’d be half as good at ass-kicking as Quinlan was.  
  
After tonight, there would be plenty of practice coming. Their little crew was about to transform into a proper organization. The vamps weren’t going to know what hit them. Once Gus sealed the deal, there was going to some goddamned motherfucking house-cleaning happening on both sides of the river.  
  
Once he got the fuck up, of course.  
  
Gus forced himself to a standing position with a moan of pain. Yep, little bitch. Through the wide window, he could see all the way across Central Park. Something was burning far over on Fifth Avenue, a cone of black smoke just beginning to drift over the trees. There were no sirens yet.  
  
He watched the fire burn a while, enjoying the warmth of the sun coming in through the window.  It warmed his aching muscles and reminded him that there were still moments of safety to be had in this world. The bright; the light. During the day, you could relax. A little.  
  
It was good to have the day, but he wanted the night back, as well.  
  
With a bruised hand, he scrubbed at the stubble on his chin and stretched carefully.  
  
Ouch.  
  
Time to get moving.  
  
There was a lot of shit to do.  
  
  
  
  
___________________________________  
  
  
  
  
  
Gus found HotShot and Quinlan on the fourteenth floor in the darkened unit the vampire had claimed for himself. It surprised Gus to see Quinlan awake at such an early hour. It did not surprise him to see the vampire so close to HotShot. Shoulder to shoulder, they were pouring over papers covered in columns of data. As Gus came closer, he saw the pages were lists of names. The passenger manifest from the dead plane.  
  
He rolled up to them. “Aww, how cute. Doing your homework together.”  
  
Quinlan raised one eyebrow. HotShot didn’t even bother to look up. She coughed into her hand whilst simultaneously flipping him the bird. “Nice of you to decide to join us. Grab a seat and a pen. We’re checking for address clusters to pin down what area will be most effective to hit next.”  
  
Gus made a sound of disgust. “That sounds boring as hell. I got something way more interesting going on.”  
  
“Do tell.”  
  
“Shit is about to get real.”  
  
At that, Quinlan’s other eyebrow went up.  
  
“I got the fish on the line.”  
  
“What fish?” HotShot finally raised her head. She looked a bit worse for wear. Her typically pale face was crisply white, purple shadowing the inside corners of her eyes. Exhausted from clearing, he supposed.  
  
“ _THE_ fish.”  
  
“Am I supposed to know who this fish is?”  
  
“Maybe.” Gus regarded his fingernails. “If you read the Jersey news.”  
  
HotShot gritted her teeth. “Has anyone read any news for the last four weeks? Would you get to the point? Jesus Christ.”  
  
“Name’s Gusto, but I appreciate the compliment. You in a mood today, _mi amiga._ Is it that time of the–”  
  
She cut him off. “Don’t you _dare_.”  
  
“Fine. Be that way. Just trying to interject a little humor, you know, keep it light–“  
  
Quinlan clicked his stinger sharply. “Enough banter. Out with it, Augustin.”  
  
“All right, boss.” Gus smiled broadly as he leaned on the table.” That Jersey crew I told you about. They’re interested. They want to meet. Tonight. Arlington Park, Jersey City. The big fish himself rang me up not thirty minutes ago.”  
  
Looking like she was about to explode, HotShot snarled, “ _WHAT_ fish?”  
  
“Alfonso Creem. King of the Jersey City Sapphires.” Gus turned a chair around backwards and sat down. For once, he was the one in the room who was totally in the know. It was a grand feeling. “He’s the baddest motherfucker across the river. His crew controls just about everything west of Manhattan. You want drugs, guns, stolen goods, people to disappear… they’re your boys. With them on our side, we could really do some damage. And… this will all fit right into Creem’s style. Dude loves his silver. Got himself a grille and everything.”  
  
“On his car?” asked HotShot.  
  
Gus pointed to his teeth.  
  
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”  
  
“Creem’s a fucking psycho, man, but he’s a psycho we want on our side.” Gus was serious now. It was really important they do this right. “We got one chance to bring them on. They play big and they play rough. We have to come off bigger and rougher. First impressions and all that. If we blow it, he’s gone.”  
  
Quinlan got it, Gus could tell. The vampire’s eyes were bright with plans. “What is it you need?”  
  
“Money, silver weapons and a ride.”  
  
“Take the Tesla, that’ll impress him,” HotShot said.  
  
“Creem already drives a Tesla.”  
  
“Well shit. Take a Hummer, then.”  
  
Gus rolled his eyes. “Any _puto_ can get a Hummer these days.”  
  
“Helicopter?”  
  
Quinlan turned to her. “That would be difficult.”  
  
“I wasn’t serious! Fuck!”  
  
Gus busted out laughing just as a loud _boom_ cracked through the air. Uptown. Sirens came wailing this time. The alliance with Creem couldn’t happen soon enough.  
  
Quinlan crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains. Carefully remaining in the shadow, he observed what was happening outside. With a low growl, he turned to them after determining it was nothing of immediate concern. “I can procure you a limousine, Augustin. Would that meet your needs?”  
  
“Maybe.” Gus thought about it for a few seconds. “Not no stripper limo, man. That’s like… obnoxious.”  
  
Quinlan’s growl kicked up a notch.  
  
“Bruh, I can’t help it if you don’t know what a strip–“  
  
HotShot jumped in before Quinlan could become openly frustrated. She approached the vampire and silenced the sound rumbling in his throat with a light touch to his shoulder.  “I think I know what Gus means. A state car. Like what politicians use. Usually a Cadillac, a Mercedes, something like that. Long, but not a stretch. Right, Gus?”  
  
“Give the lady a prize.”  
  
HotShot, still touching Quinlan, asked, “Do we have access to one of those?”  
  
“Yes,” the vampire replied. He was purring now.  
  
In that instant, Gus knew something had passed between them. The knowledge made him smile even more broadly. The world might be all fucked up but all sorts of weird shit was coming _together_. He smacked his fist into his palm, wincing as pain shot everywhere through his torso. “ _Chingon!_ Let’s do this.”  
  
  
  
_________________________________  
  
  
  
“But Gus!” I was exasperated. The _booms_ were now coming from both uptown and downtown. The sirens had stopped a while ago and dark winter scarves of curling smoke trailed across the sky. “Why can’t I come?”  
  
Gus was stuffing silver weapons into a long bag. “Not this time, _amiga_. Mr. Q’s going to play chauffeur. We got it all worked out.”  
  
“Wouldn’t it be easier if I drove? That way you two can focus on what you have to do. I won’t make a peep.”  
  
Gus zipped up the bag. “ _Amiga_ , you don’t understand. Creem will take one look at you and – _pow!_ – our cred goes to zero. It’s not like I can pass you off as my girl.”  
  
“Thanks a lot, dick,” I said, dry.  
  
Gus made a gesture of peace. “And you got that cough. We can’t have you hacking away when the delicate negotiations are going down, see.”  
  
He was right. Even if I stayed out of sight, the cough was a problem. It had started as a tickle in the morning and intensified throughout the day. Counting out twenty thousand mildewy dollars from one of the many crates of cash certainly hadn’t helped. My lungs felt heavy and full of mold.  
  
“I understand, but it still sucks.” Being left behind, for any reason, stung.  
  
Gus put his arm around my shoulders, giving me a ‘cheer up’ squeeze. “No buts. You know what I mean. They’ll be packing, we’ll be packing even more, and if shit goes bad, it’s gonna go real bad. I don’t want you in the middle of that.” Using the mirror in the foyer, he carefully adjusted the top button of his shirt, smoothing the placket with fussy precision. I’d helped him wash and iron it. It was a little ragged at the hem, but otherwise presentable enough. I had to admit, he cut a rakish figure, especially with his tilted hat.  
  
“What are you going to do if Creem doesn’t sign up?”  
  
“Dunno. Run real fast and hope Quinlan can take him out before he puts a bullet in my back.”  
  
“God.”  
  
Gus’ freshly shaved reflection was somber. “He’ll be watching over me, too, I’m sure.”  
  
I helped drag the heavy bag of money over to the door while Gus hefted the weapons. “Be careful. Don’t make my ironing job be for nothing.” I broke off into a spasm of coughing which left me light headed and sweaty.  
  
Concern competed with the excitement dancing in Gus’ brown eyes. He put the back of his hand to my forehead in a surprisingly tender gesture. “You’re hot. Take it easy, _amiga_. Watch TV. Read a book. Think about the fucking stock market or something. Don’t worry about us. We got this.”  
  
The sound of booted feet could be heard coming down the outside corridor.  
  
Quinlan opened the door. His hood was down almost to the tip of his nose, and not for the first time, I wondered how he could see anything. He stepped inside and lifted the bag of money like it was nothing, then tromped back down the hall without a word.  
  
“I gotta go,” Gus said. He hugged me quickly. “Now don’t be an asshole; fucking rest up, okay?”  
  
Another fit of coughing was coming, and I didn’t want either of them to hear. I shoved Gus out the door. “I will. Go catch your fish. And don’t be a dick, dick.”  
  
  
  
_________________________________  
  
  
  
From my front windows, I stood watch until the Mercedes limo pulled around onto 59th and sped away. Evening faded, the streetlights brightened, and vampires came out to kill.  
  
For the first time in many days, I was completely alone. It was a vulnerable feeling. The Hunters didn’t count as company. If anything, they were a liability without Quinlan nearby to curb their predatory instincts.  
  
The other liability was five floors up, hopefully deep in blood-drunk dreams.  
  
All the more reason to lock the door. The clunk of the deadbolt was a reassuring sound.  
  
Listless, I padded among the rooms, still feeling exposed. The back of my neck was crawling – in fact, all my skin was crawling. Invisible fingers tickled up and down my spine, stopping to squeeze at the base of my skull. It was a horrible sensation that had started shortly after Quinlan and I had returned from the hunt. I checked all the windows, looked in all the closets – I was now the proud owner of several evening gowns – rechecked the door and then stood miserably in the middle of the white living room, coughing and uncomfortable.  
  
I turned on the TV. That helped somewhat. With a blanket wrapped around me and my scimitar across my lap, I curled up on the couch and channel-surfed. TNT was still playing the same shitty shows. Spongebob was screaming at Patrick on Nick. The news stations were full of inaccurate soundbites about what was happening in the world. As a tired-looking announcer described export dilemmas caused by the shipping delays in New York Harbor, I reached up to massage my crawling neck. Hot pain directly under my ears made me flinch.  
  
Sore lymph nodes. Very sore.  
  
I dropped my hands into my lap and admitted it. The cough wasn’t just from mold. The heat coming off my face wasn’t just because the apartment was warm. The fatigue wasn’t just from the heavy work of clearing.  
  
I was sick.  
  
I knew exactly where I’d caught it. The man at the church. The one with “that thing that’s been going around.” The one I helped murder.  
  
Oh karma, I thought. You fucking bitch.  
  
Stabbing through channels, I hacked into my fist and tried not to feel upset. What the fuck was I supposed to have done? I couldn’t have just left Quinlan to suffer. He’d asked me for help, almost begged! And now, what would happen? Would I be able to fight off this bug by myself?  
  
Again, that annoying tickle. Fever restlessness, I supposed.  
  
CNN came up. Images of a darkened plane sitting ominous on a misty runway filled the screen. On its tail, the crimson crane of JAL. The _strigoi_ plague had reached Japan.  
  
I shut the TV off, tossed away the blanket and went to the window. The cool glass felt good against my hot forehead.  
  
The hunt. It had changed me. Two men were dead, lured by my humanness to end as meals for the creature I considered a friend. There was no denying it – prim and proper as he might be, Quinlan was a predator. Now by association, I was one as well. Despite being ill, my heart leapt as I remembered the exciting tension of those violent minutes: the fear, the anxiety, and the satisfying relief as the sound of Quinlan’s stinger smacking home reverberated off the church wall.  
  
Where was the shame I should have felt? The disgust? Instead, a primal fire deep in my soul sparked to life with sensual heat.  
  
An ambulance went tearing across 59th, running dark, swerving at several vampires but missing.  
  
Everything from that moment on the side of the road was burned into my memory: the unreal solidness of his body, that stiff corner of his long mouth against my cheek, and how close my lips had come to brushing it. The dry, warm taste of his skin and his scent: dusty paper. Like a man, but not.  
  
Alien. Enticing.  
  
I wasn’t just sick in the body. I was sick in the head.  
  
I was developing feelings. Why? Because he’d saved my life? Because he’d given me a role and purpose well-suited to my skills? Because I was lonely and grieving for what I’d lost? Gus I could have understood. He was vibrant and funny and handsome. Human, too.  
  
Instead, my sights were focused on a creature who needed to kill to survive.  
  
The streets below grew chaotic. Frantic little figures darted along the sidewalk, some dark and bundled against the cold, others white and naked, moving with the perfect mechanical grace of insects. I thought about Quinlan’s similar movements, and the strange gray marbling that flowed across his face. I wondered if the rest of him was similarly marked. I wondered about other things, too. How far did his _strigoi_ traits extend?  
  
A molotov of curious lust exploded in my core.  
  
Sick in the _head_.  
  
Part of me tried to scuttle away from the blaze, like a vamp from sunlight. It held a tiny hope that soon, all this insanity would be over and I’d be back to my former life, the future plotted out nicely in an endless procession of meetings and appointments, everything neat and tidy and carefully controlled. There would be a boyfriend. Or maybe just another car. There would be a job, another house. A slew of doctors. The safety of a hospital and treatment, with lab results moving back into the green over time. There would be a future.  
  
The feverish darkness in me laughed.  
  
The ambulance was back. This time it took out three _strigoi_. They pinwheeled over the hood to splatter on the street. A taxi, hurtling somewhere that no longer mattered, hit one and went careening into Central Park in an explosion of shrubbery. Instead of being horrified, I found it amusing.  
  
I was done. I had passed that last, sacrosanct boundary. I had helped take a human life, so that another could live. I didn’t even have enough humanity left to feel guilty about it.  
  
From the base of my skull erupted a delicious shiver. The invisible fingers clutched at it. I shook them off with a throaty snarl, slitting my eyes as I remembered the red flash of Quinlan’s stinger, flying through the air as it rewound. Seeing that, seeing him as he truly was – it thrilled me.  
  
I knew then I would see this through, whatever it would take.  
  
Not because it was alien.  
  
Not because I was evil.  
  
Not even because I was sick in the head – because I wasn’t.  
  
I would see this through for one very simple reason: it might be my last chance for closeness with anyone – even if that anyone was only half-human – in the time I had left.  
  
I rubbed my neck again, the snarl of lust still curling my lip. That goddamned annoying tickle. It had become a vise of pain. With a groan, I staggered to the bathroom and tossed Advil down my throat. Then I took my position back up on the couch, snapped the TV back on. As the flatscreen squawked, I let the fingers of fitful sleep drag me down into welcomed darkness.  
  
  
_____________________________  
  
  
  
Quinlan leaned against the front bumper of the Mercedes, watching the criminal called Creem hurry away. The bag of money bounced against the gangster’s broad back. Every five steps or so, the one lugging the weapons would turn and look over his shoulder. Royal, he’d called himself. Quinlan could smell his fear.  
  
The vampire curled his upper lip. They were both distasteful creatures. These desperate times called for desperate measures, but that did not mean Quinlan had to like their new allies. There was no honor in them, just greed.  
  
They departed in a thunder of obnoxious bass thumping.  
  
He would leverage that greed. Promise them just enough, deliver just a little more than expected on occasion, and they would follow like jackals after a hunting lion.  
  
He blew air through the valves in his stinger. The clack echoed across the small park. Inside the Mercedes, Gus thumped the dash with the flat of his hand. He was impatient to be away. _Strigoi_ scattered by the melee in the park were beginning to return, lurkers in the periphery, shadows of ivory and red. As of yet, they still did not understand what they were seeing, and therefore did not relay visions of alarm back to The Master. Soon, though. Soon one would live long enough after spotting him to pause and transmit, and then the game would be fully on.  
  
The leather of his gloves creaked as Quinlan flexed his fingers in anticipation.  
  
Gus thumped the dash again.  
  
The vampire slipped behind the wheel of the car. He did not speak until they were clear of the park by several blocks.  
  
“I do not like him, Augustin.”  
  
The Sun Hunter was wired from their successful impression. His excited voice grated on Quinlan’s nerves. “Yeah, well, join the club, boss. Creem’s not gonna win any personality contests. But we need him, and he’s down. Did you see his face when he saw all that silver? Like a little kid on Christmas morning. He couldn’t resist.”  
  
“He will need to be carefully managed.”  
  
“I can handle him. Trust me.” Gus was twirling his hat in his hands: _flip flop flip_.  After the fourth flip, Quinlan reached over and tossed it to the rear of the car.  
  
“The hell, man!” Gus cried.  
  
“I need you to be still, Augustin.”  
  
“You’re one grumpy motherfucker tonight.” Gus glared at him for a second. Quinlan ignored him until the young man slouched down in his seat. A bright light from between Gus’ hands indicated he was pecking at his phone. If the device had not still been minimally useful, Quinlan would have thrown that to the back of the car, as well.  
  
Gus was right; he was in a mood. The demonstration slaying brought back unpleasant memories, which despite a vast span of time, were clear as a bitter winter night. His earliest years. Those had been harrowing times. Confusing times. Spending his days under guard with the other newly purchased fighters, little more than a bipedal animal with a rudimentary sense of dignity. Booted out in the painful light of the late afternoon, skin smoking, the arena a cloud of yellow dust, a stick or spike or nothing in his hands. Silhouette of the wild cat, the angry bear, or the excited human opponent sizing him up with bloodthirsty anticipation. Then: battle, the crowd leaning forward into the dust, bets flying between bejeweled hands, the men’s faces twisted with the frenzy of violence, the women’s with fascinated disgust. Sometimes his thirst was quenched, others not. But always the show, always the display. A thing to be watched. Wagered upon. Leered at.  
  
An angry, hungry, aching thing.  
  
They would bring him human food; he would leave it to rot. Eventually he learned to keep it and use it to barter for things he needed, like the key to the livestock pen. He did not talk nor did the others try to speak to him. He hung in the shadows until the slaver pushed him into the fighting ring at spearpoint, and then he would promptly kill whatever was in there with him.  
  
After, bleeding and thirsty, he would dream of freedom, and of revenge.  
  
Women would visit the barracks sometimes. They avoided the white wraith who watched their comings and goings with curious, crimson eyes. Their fearful glances were much like those Royal had thrown over his shoulder. Quinlan grimaced, remembering the time someone had thought it a good joke to send an uninformed whore to the _lemure_. The girl had been poor of sight and had not realized her peril, even when his unusual body heat washed over her. His attempt had been uncontrolled and she quickly died. It had created quite a ruckus when he’d dumped her used corpse in the common area, reddened stinger flickering visible in his mouth, daring them all with his eyes to do something about it. Nothing had happened. The body was removed quietly. After that, he was regarded with fear, and when his victories continued unabated, the fear became grudging respect.  
  
Respect begat renown and renown begat curiosity. The whores then came of their own accord, and he learned he did not have to drink them to death to take from them what they wished to give.  
  
His stinger corkscrewed in his chest, twisting other parts further down in the process. He jerked in surprise. It had been a long time since he’d felt that unmistakable twinge.  
  
Gus looked up from his phone and said, “The fuck is up with you tonight?”  
  
“Nothing.” Quinlan clenched his teeth and drove.  
  
As they emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel into the dense side streets of mid-town, an ambulance hurtled across their path. Quinlan was forced to stomp on the brakes. The cellphone flew out of Gus’ hands and smashed against the dashboard as the long car nosed down. The ambo was weaving across the street, shearing off the side view mirrors of cars abandoned at the curb. Its dented front-end gleamed with long slicks of pearlescent white. When two _strigoi_ reeled out from between two cars, fully extended stingers dragging a struggling woman, the ambulance ran them all over. One last side mirror became a casualty before the big vehicle disappeared around a corner with a roar.  
  
“The fuck was _THAT_?” Gus was panting from surprise. “ _Dios mio!_ Motherfucker was running them down on purpose.”  
  
“Interesting technique.”  
  
Gus peered down the ambulance’s path of vehicular and vampiric carnage. The long car began to pass the bodies. “He got all three. No, wait. Stop.”  
  
Gus hopped out, approaching the crushed woman. Quinlan realized he could still hear her bloodbeat. She was dying and infected. The virus would resurrect her before dawn. The Sun Hunter sensed she was still alive as well. He drew his knife and released her quickly. No hesitation. Quinlan was pleased.  
  
That was, until Gus picked up her purse lying a few feet away. As the young man got back into the car, Quinlan applied the gas heavily to clear the scene. He had a feeling they were being watched.  
  
“Retrieving that was wholly unnecessary,” he chided.  
  
“Oh yeah, _compa_? Well, look here.” Gus held up a new iPhone. He dug around in the debris on the floormat, found a small card, placed it into the device then turned it on. The screen was even brighter than the one that had just been destroyed. “See? I always wanted one of these. Killer. And…” He rummaged a bit more in the bag, pulling out a bottle of pills. Squinting at at the label, Gus was finally able to read it when Quinlan slowed the car for a red light. “Fucking jackpot, yo. We’re going to need these.”  
  
“Whatever for, Augustin?”  
  
“HotShot. I think she’s sick. These look like antibiotics. Lotta people walking around with meds, thinking that’ll save them from all this.”  
  
Quinlan’s mood went from dark to darker. He knew HotShot was sick but hearing Gus call it out made it uncomfortably real. That strange whisper in her bloodbeat had been all he could hear when he’d stepped into the foyer of her apartment. It had been on his mind the entire night, nibbling away like a rat at the base of his skull.  
  
“Will they help her?” he asked Gus.  
  
“Maybe. It can’t hurt to try.”  
  
Quinlan blew air through his stinger again, rattling it hard. Gus jumped. “Goddammit, man, I hate that sound. It’s so fuckin’ weird.”  
  
The vampire did not apologize. He grimly continued to drive.  
  
Humans became sick all the time, he reminded himself. They were incredibly hardy creatures. Vaccines, health care and an inimitable will to survive had allowed them to cover every surface of the planet. He could only trust that if HotShot needed assistance that she would tell them – _tell him,_ most importantly. She was absolutely hiding something. He would work on prying it out of her later. For now, he just wanted her to be well.  
  
“You’re worried about her, aren’t you?”  
  
His response to Gus was carefully neutral. “She has been a considerable investment in resources to bring on board.”  
  
Gus gave a derisive snort. “Resources, man? Like expensive weapons? _Compa_ , nobody _made_ you give her that crazy-ass sword. She would have been just fine with one of them plain ones we gave Creem. That scimitar looks worth a fortune. I could pawn it and live on that loan for a year.”  
  
Very slowly, Quinlan turned his head towards Gus.  
  
Gus rolled his eyes. “Can I buy you a sense of humor tonight, bruh? I’m not sayin’ I’m gonna pawn it. I’m just saying it looks like it’s worth serious cash, yo. It’s like a relic. Reminds me of shit the old man had in his pawnshop. He had some good shit, there. Lotta silver. He always paid top dollar.” Gus rubbed his hand over his bare head. “I wonder if he’s still alive. He knew about them, you know. About the vamps.”  
  
Quinlan pulled the car over with a screech of tires and threw it in park.  
  
“The fuck, man–“  
  
Quinlan silenced the Sun Hunter with a finger to his lips.  
  
“Not another word, unless it’s ‘pawnbroker.’ Everything you know about that old man, all of it. Now.”  
  
Gus threw his hands up in the air, frustrated. “He was just a dude. An old Jew. Been there forever. His shop was right around the corner from where I lived. When we were kids, we liked to go in there and look at all the cool things he had. Military stuff. Grenades and knives and old guns. When we were older, he’d buy shit from us, especially if it was real silver. Like Creem – he couldn’t resist it. And you know what was especially cool, about him, Q? He didn’t ask a million fucking questions or get all up in my shit like you’re doing right now.”  
  
“And he knew about the _strigoi_?”  
  
“Yeah, man, he knew about the fucking _strigoi_. Felix and I fucking ended up in city jail the night I killed that vamp in Times Square. The old man was there, too. In the tank. I dunno why. He saw Felix was infected and he told me flat out to put him down. He knew what was up. I had no idea what he meant!” Gus broke off, his blustery expression starting to crumble. “Why you gotta make me remember that shit?”  
  
“Because it’s important, Augustin. Did he tell you anything else?”  
  
“No, man!” Gus was visibly upset. 

Quinlan gentled himself. Human emotion was complex, and sometimes he had difficulty keeping up with it. Gus was a boiling mixture of sadness, anxiety and anger right now. He said, “I’m sorry if I was harsh to you, Augustin. Every piece of information is important. We can risk overlooking nothing. There was a lot of pressure on us both tonight. You did very well with Creem and Royal. Your performance was impressive.”  
  
This soothed Gus somewhat. Grudging, he replied, “So was yours. Especially the part where you just busted straight through all those damn tree branches. Shit was like a Bugs Bunny cartoon.”  
  
Quinlan didn’t get the reference but he knew a peace offering when he heard one. He patted Gus on the shoulder, causing the young man to brighten further. “Tomorrow, you and HotShot will pay your pawnbroker friend a visit during the day. And then we will truly know all we have to deal with.”  
  
“As long as she isn’t too sick.”  
  
“Give me those medicines; I will tend to her.” Quinlan paused, then added, “Unless of course you wish to assist her.”  
  
Gus tossed him the pill bottle. “It’s all yours.”

Quinlan resumed driving. After a block or two, Gus said quietly to the back of his head, “And Mr. Q?”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“It’s okay to care, man.”  
  
Quinlan opened his mouth but closed it before his stinger could make a self-incriminating sound.  
  
Gus sighed. “Listen. You talking to Gusto Elizalde here. Nothing gets past me - that’s why you brought me on, right? You don’t survive on the street if you miss things. This is obvious. It’s been obvious. You two have been all up in each other’s shit since the first day you brought her to the mine.”  
  
Quinlan said nothing. He was a little dismayed by how much Gus knew.  
  
Gus plowed on. “She’s into you. You ugly as hell but still. Typical chick. Fuckin’ _loco_. Who knows what they’re gonna like or not like? And you dig it. It’s okay.”  
  
Quinlan remained quiet.  
  
“I just–“ Gus waved his hands around. He sighed heavily. “You are a dude, right?  
  
“I am basically male, if that’s what you’re getting at.”  
  
“Yeah. Well okay, then. I guess.” Gus shook his head. “Whatever. Listen, nobody’s gonna care. At least I’m not.”  
  
Gus’ opinion wasn’t a concern. The opinion of three others was.  
  
“Hell, we could all be dead tomorrow. Okay, maybe not YOU but I certainly could be. If I found some little fiery piece I wouldn’t waste a minute–”  
  
“Augustin, enough.”  
  
“Well, I _wouldn’t,_ ” Gus emphasized. “And pardon me if I’m overstepping my bounds, but you shouldn’t, either. I don’t think any of us are going to live forever.”  
  
  
  
  
________________________________  
  
  
  
In my hands, I held a key.  
  
It was a strange key, squared off and crude. The cool, dark weight of it in my palm said iron. I didn’t know where it had come from or how I’d gotten it.  
  
I was kneeling in dry, turned earth. A untilled garden? A screen of grass jumped up at the edge of the broken earth. Beyond the grass, low trees, and beyond those, mountains, snowy in the distance.  
  
Something was moving through the grass towards me.  
  
I struggled up, anxious. Crumbs of dirt clung to my knees. I clutched the key tightly. It was very important. Very important I not lose it. No matter what came through the grass.  
  
Standing, I was able to get a better sense of the landscape. The sky was deep blue. The tan of the sharp grass stood in stark contrast against the oncoming evening. The trees appeared dry, as if there was a drought on. The air on my face felt uncomfortably warm and the whole landscape looked parched and unhappy.  
  
A figure stood off to my right, under the branches of one of the trees. As it was in shadow, I could not make out any details. I spied another to my left, similarly ambiguous. Finally, a third, perhaps a hundred yards ahead of me, the grass brushing its knees. It was very tall and thin.  
  
The figures were dangerous.  
  
I realized I was naked. I made a pathetic attempt to cover myself with my hands, keeping the key tucked against my palm. It could not be lost. It must be protected from the three watchers.  
  
A rustle drew my attention back to the grass. Blades shivered and began to part. A sleek shadow became visible, its loose and furtive motion a counterpoint to the watchers’ rigid awareness. I felt a level of fear so dense as to almost be sexual.  
  
The grass emerged a lion.  
  
Vague memories stirred, slipping away before I could catch them fully. Another lion, light, whereas this one was dark. Its great, square head was criss-crossed with scars. The red eyes were blank and hungry.  
  
I could feel the watchers’ anticipation of the lion’s attack. They seemed to draw nearer, yet they did not move. In a desperate bid, I cast off the shame of my nakedness and held up my hand, the key clutched between my fingers. The lion followed my movement, raising its nose and sniffing, revealing a body made of gears, like that of a clockwork. In its breast, a ragged keyhole.  
  
I felt the watchers draw up and in, ready for the kill.  
  
With a roar, the lion leapt.  
  
I stabbed blindly with the key.  
  
My hand smashing into the wooden accent on the sofa arm woke me instantly. The lion’s roar was still ringing in my stuffy ears as I struggled to an upright position. I was sicker than ever. The TV had shut itself off, as had the lights, controlled by their autotimer. It should have been dark in the apartment, but instead a strange, orangish glow poured in through the windows. As I got up, I realized the roaring sound was real, but mechanical as opposed to animal.  
  
There were no combinations of profanities adequate to describe what was happening outside.  
  
One of the buildings on Central Park West was burning, illuminating the scene on the street. About fifty _strigoi_ of all shapes and sizes were ringing two figures who stood back to back, armed with bright UV lights. Even from the tenth floor, I could tell the figures were women: strong and tall, with curly hair and stern faces. They were doing an admirable job of holding off the vamps with their light weapons, swinging the beams in great arcs. Sizzling vamps went scuttling, only to be replaced by unharmed replacements. It looked like a hopeless standoff until I heard the roar again.  
  
Racing at speed down 59th came that mysterious attack ambulance from earlier. It plowed through one half of the circle of vamps while the two women dodged it with practiced precision. As the _strigoi_ regrouped, loud cracks reverberated between the buildings. The vampires closest to the women went down like sacks of meal. One self-serving vamp tried to make a break for the park. Its head exploded before I even heard the sound of the shot.  
  
Sniper.  
  
The women pulled out pistols and began sinking bullets in skulls.  
  
I spotted the ambulance coming back for another pass just as a second vehicle entered the scene: an armored car. That one was outfitted with a crude metal ram plate, which it used to flatten anything vertical in its path. Slicks of white blood streamed behind it. It and the ambulance cleared the majority of the vamps in two more drag-strip passes. The women served as irresistible lures for the remainder, who were then picked off by the unseen sniper.  
  
We might be covert ops; these guys, whoever they were, were all-out beserkers.  
  
A flash of old-school tall headlights at the far end of 59th announced the appearance of a third vehicle.  
  
“Oh, come on,” I moaned.  
  
The Mercedes state car. Quinlan and Gus. Headed right for the fray.  
  
Spewing every four letter word I could cough out, I scrambled for my boots and weapons. My movements felt slowed to half-speed. I went crashing out into the hallway, clanging the scimitar against the decorative console table which had once held newspapers for the building residents. The elevator would be too slow. Stairs it was. Awesome.  
  
Dizzy, coughing, heedless from fever, I stumbled down the flights on greasy joints. The ruckus I made drew the attention of a Hunter, which burst into the landing directly behind me.  
  
I spun, grabbing the handrail to keep from falling down. The Hunter had its weapon shouldered and leveled at my head. I shouted at it. “I don’t know if you can understand me but your boss is going to get pumped full of sniper rounds if we don’t get out onto the street and run interference right NOW!”  
  
When I turned to continue running, it followed.  
  
As soon as I burst into the back hall, I drew up short. The narrow lobby, with its dark paneling, provided a shotgun view to the street. A bulky figure outside blocked most of the light coming in through the front door. I spotted the long, mean shape of a rifle in its hands.  
  
The growling Hunter exploded from the stairwell and linebackered into me. We went down in a noisy clatter of guns and swords.  
  
Outside, the sniper barked, “The fuck is this now?’  
  
There was no stopping the Hunter. It was up in a flash and charging, its hooded head lowered. I realized the sniper could not parse what was coming at him. His hesitation gave me just enough time to shout, “Don’t kill him!” as the Hunter blasted through the door.  
  
The sniper rifle went flying. The Hunter and the sniper flew further. They crashed into a garbage can while the ambulance screeched to halt across from the fight. Its rear doors banged open. The two women, clearly twin sisters, made a beeline for it. Quinlan and Gus in the state car were in the middle of 59th, their approach to our garage blocked by the armored car.  
  
The Hunter had the sniper’s arms pinned securely behind his back. The man wasn’t going anywhere but his mouth still worked. “Who the fuck are you fuckin’ jokers?” he shouted. ‘Joker’ came out as ‘jokah.’  
  
“Great, a Boston asshole,” I muttered, turning to see how many guns were pointed at me. Three. “To answer your question, we’re on your side. And so are they.” I nodded at the state car.  
  
The sniper’s steely eyes ticked to the Mercedes. “And who are you, missy?”  
  
“Anderson, I don’t like this!” one of the women called.  
  
“Shaddap, Emille!” The sniper was watching me closely.  “What’s your angle?”  
  
“Trying to survive, just like you.” I kept my voice even and low.    
  
“Yeah, well, we was here first. This is our fuckin’ territory.”  
  
“Be that as it may, I think we can all agree–“ I carefully raised my hand to point at a wounded _strigoi_ glaring in pain and dragging itself along the far sidewalk, “that what we’re trying to do is survive against those.”  
  
“You ain’t gonna be surviving fucking anything if your goon here doesn’t let me go.”  
  
“I’ll have you released when your people lower their weapons.”  
  
“No fucking chance.”  
  
“Suit yourself, then… Anderson, is it?”  
  
With explosive force, Anderson erupted in a burst of furious struggling, nearly twisting free of the Hunter’s grip. He dealt a one-two in elbows to the Hunter’s chin, stomped on its instep, and managed to half-throw it over his shoulder. It was crystal clear he had some serious hand-to-hand fighting experience.   
  
Chaos ensued.  
  
Car doors banged open on all sides of the street. I focused on the twins, drawing down on them with my best shooter’s stance. Sick as I was, I knew I’d never hit either of them, but they didn’t know that. They froze and put up their hands.  
  
From in front of the ambo, the sound of flesh smacking flesh was sharp. Gus was hollering like a WWE fighter as he punched the driver. “You like that, bitch? You want some more? I got plenty more where that come from, _puto_!”  
  
To my right, the armored car rocked as its driver got out. Adrenaline filled my legs with water as I realized I was completely vulnerable on that side. There was a moment where I was sure I was done, then a flash of black and a puff of hot air announced the arrival of the other Hunters. One took the driver down, landing on his chest while smacking his handgun away. I could sense another behind me, guarding. The fourth went to assist its brother with Anderson.  
  
I risked a glance over to them. Anderson was finally down on his knees, one Hunter with a tight grip on the back of his neck. The other was rising up, shoulders hunched, its stance forward and predatory. Below its exposed white chin, the muzzle swung from one strap, having been knocked free in the scuffle. Gobbets of drool dripped from its unhinging maw. Pink and wet, the protective flaps of its stinger were folded flat against its cheeks, revealing the two-pronged tip ready to launch.  
  
Anderson’s florid, surly face went pale. His Boston accent was as heavy as brownstone as he yelled, “ _Mother of Jaysus,_ what the fuck is going on _heah_?”  
  
One last car door opened, then slammed closed.  
  
_HOLD._  
  
The Hunter jerked as if electrocuted. It straightened up and turned away from Anderson.  
  
From where he stood straddling the half-unconscious ambo driver, Gus said with cheer, “It’s about time you decided to join us, Mr. Q.”  
  
Quinlan strode slowly into the middle of the fracas. His air was that of a field marshal. He walked with measured strides, hood low and head tilted slightly back, looking down his nose at everything. One hand rested on the butt of his handgun, the other on the hilt of his tactical machete. His long mouth was pursed in a tight, imperious line.  
  
I kept my aim on the twin sisters but they had forgotten all about me. Their eyes, round as saucers, were riveted to the tall figure approaching.  
  
Still kneeling, a Hunter on either side of him, Anderson regarded Quinlan for a moment, then snarled, “What the fuck kind of fuckin’ vampire fuckin’ bastid are you?”  
  
I heard Gus stifle laughter.  
  
Quinlan looked flatly at Anderson, then rotated his body so he faced me. When he spoke, his tone was dry. “He’s worse than you and Gus, combined.”  
  
Without changing my aim, I shrugged and grinned a little.  
  
Quinlan turned back to Anderson, letting out a long, wet sigh.  
  
“I think,” he rumbled, “it’s time for our groups to parley.”


	9. Part 3: Collision - Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions rise in the apartment building as new recruits are brought in. Gus finds things to be excited about. HotShot struggles with her health as Quinlan struggles with old, difficult memories. The Tesla becomes a powderkeg of conflict between HotShot and Anderson.
> 
> Includes a little nod to Shadowflame611's "Thousand-Year Resolve"...

The five strangers stood in the first floor office of the apartment building. Quinlan made sure their backs were to the far wall and a desk was in between them and the doorway. That they allowed themselves to be herded so easily into this compromised position told him everything.  These would not last if they encountered anything more clever than a freshly-turned _strigoi_. But perhaps they could be taught.  
  
“We want no quarrel,” he said to them. “We share the same foe. It would make sense for us to coordinate our efforts instead of clashing with each other.”  
  
Behind him, Gus shuffled his feet. HotShot suppressed her coughing. Two motionless Hunters bracketed the door, ready to assist if needed.  
  
Anderson the sniper stood in front of his people, staring at Quinlan with the disposition of a poorly trained dog. His visage hinted at a life dragged through rocks and broken glass. After looking Quinlan up and down with overt suspicion, he ran a hand through the steel brush of his hair. “What I want to know is why the fuck you want to kill your own fucking kind.”  
  
“They are not my kind.”  
  
“Bullshit.”  
  
Gus came exploding over Quinlan’s shoulder, outraged by Anderson’s sneer. “Show some respect, _cabrón!_ You’re in our house! The only reason you stupid fools ain’t dead is because–“  
  
Quinlan stopped his Sun Hunter with an outstretched arm. “Easy, Augustin. We’re here to talk, not to fight.”  
  
“Augustin.” Anderson rolled the name around his mouth, tasting it and finding it disagreeable.  
  
“That’s Gus to you, _pendejo!”_  
  
Anderson rolled his eyes.  
  
Quinlan was about ready to put Gus into a headlock when HotShot intervened. She pulled her snarling comrade back, hissing for quiet. Gus shook her off, then spent time adjusting the collar of his shirt until it was back to his liking. With a grunt, he flopped down on the office sofa, knees far apart and arms thrown along the back, affecting what Quinlan assumed to be an attitude of sprawling gangster indifference.  
  
“Are you done?“ HotShot asked Gus.  
  
“Nothing to be done with,” Gus said. His eyes settled on Anderson. _“Nothing at all.”_  
  
Fever heat was rolling off HotShot in waves. Quinlan could feel it from where he was. A quick glance confirmed her eyes were glassy, her skin the consistency of wax. Her heart’s thready rhythm was causing her already inconstant bloodbeat to go in and out of phase with her pulse. This was no common human cold. Yet, despite her distressing state, she was on her feet, grimly staring Anderson down.  
  
The sniper’s attention shifted to her. “And you are?”  
  
She told the strangers her name – her real name. First spoken weeks ago and not since, it sounded alien to Quinlan. She let it hang in the air for a beat. “But I go by HotShot these days.”  
  
“That,” Anderson replied, “is the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a long time.” He pulled up a chair and sat, chin jutting in expectation of a reaction.  
  
Quinlan stood motionless.  
  
Gus, lounging, had eyes only for the ceiling.  
  
HotShot cleared her throat and asked, “And you go by?”  
  
“Anderson.”  
  
“Anderson what?”  
  
“Just fuckin’ Anderson to you.”  
  
A bark of congested laughter escaped her. “Well, then. I rest my case.”  
  
Behind Anderson, the twin sisters were not quite able to hide their smirks in their ragged scarves.    
  
Anderson asked, “You the ones with the Hummers and that shitty black Expedition?”  
  
HotShot nodded slowly. “Yes. A black Tesla, too.”  Quinlan silently approved of her controlled delivery. It said: I am reasonable and not the hothead here. Trust me; what harm could I pose?  
  
He thought back to the church and what she had done for him. What harm, indeed.  
  
Anderson wasn’t biting. “We’ve seen you then. Fucking stupid car. What are you going to do when the electrical grid goes down?”  
  
“If the grid goes, I don’t think it will be down for long. They want chaos but not collapse.”  
  
“And ‘they’ are?”  
  
“The Master… and his minions, both human and vampire.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound good.” It was one of the twins.  
  
“Camille, shut up.”  
  
“Well, it doesn’t,” said the other sister.  
  
Quinlan felt the room shift. Anderson’s four realized the scale of the problem. Their bodies dumped adrenaline, the scent of their blood turning sweet as they understood being turned was inevitable if they went back to their vehicles. He pounced on the opening, saying, “I have seen many outbreaks in my time. This one is of unprecedented proportions. What is happening here in the city – this is no accident. It is a concerted attack against humanity. Your future is hanging by a thread. Fighters are needed. Your strategies are bold with an impressive return for the effort. But you know the approach is not sustainable long term. Your vehicles will be compromised. A flat tire, a punctured gas tank, a broken window. What will you do when that happens?”  
  
Pugnacious, Anderson ignored the anxious fidgeting behind him.  
  
HotShot took the baton. “We’ve cleared every building on this part of the block in the last two days to stabilize this immediate area. Inside these walls, we’re safe as houses. We have food, hot water, plenty of space. Beds. Doors that lock. This whole building is ours. You can rest here.”  
  
The ambulance driver let slip a yearning sigh.  
  
“What I still don’t get is why _you’re_ in the game.” Anderson thrust a finger at Quinlan.  
  
“The Master and I have some history.”  
  
“Why should we give a fuck about that?”  
  
Quinlan showed them his teeth. “Because aligning improves our chances of success. Power is in numbers. Even the _strigoi_ know that. Share with us your supplies and vehicles and we will provide resources and sanctuary from the ever-growing horde outside. Together, we will cut them back and restore order.”  
  
Here he paused, letting the offer sink in.  
  
“Anderson, I think we should consider it,” the armored car driver prompted.  
  
“And if we say no?” Anderson’s tongue moved thickly behind his lips.  
  
“It’s your suicide, yo.” Gus was a couch-sprawling oracle of gangster wisdom. “I give you a week before you’re just five more bloodsuckers we have to stake.” He flicked a hand at the big sniper. “I’ll make sure to save two for you, _cabrón.”_  
  
For a moment, it looked like Anderson was going to refuse. But coarse as he appeared, he was not stupid. Quinlan could tell the sniper knew his people were tired and it was only a matter of time before one of them made a critical mistake. With a disgusted motion, Anderson grunted. “You’re all pussies, but fine. Go get your shit. Let’s see what these jokers have to offer.”  
  
Palpable relief swept through the room.  
  
Quinlan turned to the still-lounging Gus. He clicked his stinger loudly. The Sun Hunter levered himself upright. Attitude still dripped from the set of Gus’ mouth; Quinlan supposed it was a necessary show. “Augustin, assist them. Secure their vehicles then escort them to the fifth floor. They may take both the front and back units.” He followed up with a focused thought for only Gus and HotShot. _They are not to wander unattended. I will post a Hunter in the stairwell at eleven. It will be instructed to use mortal force on trespassers. If it senses a bloodbeat, it will strike. ANY bloodbeat. Am I clear?_  
  
Gus grunted, HotShot nodded. In a rolling shuffle, the Sun Hunter approached the group as they were filing out the door. The man he’d knocked out turned around. Gus held out a hand in peace. “No hard feelings, right, homes? Just the price of doing business?”  
  
They shook and disappeared through the door.  
  
Anderson got up but did not follow.  “So let me get this straight,” he said to Quinlan. “You’re bringing us in to your misfit goon squad so we can all work together and save the fucking world?”  
  
“That’s the idea,” said HotShot.  
  
Quinlan made a subtle hand movement behind his back at HotShot to silence her. He approached the sniper. Though they were about equal in height, Anderson was broad as a barn door. Subduing him might actually require effort. Drinking him would be much easier. All it would take would be a quick grab, a sharp jerk to snap his head back, then a hard strike and about ten good pulls. His ever-present thirst lobbied for this option.  
  
Their chests touched.  
  
Anderson’s watery blue eyes boiled against the red-black of Quinlan’s. The steady thrum of his bloodbeat did not waver. No amateur could exert that kind of control. A professionally-trained sniper could.  
  
Quinlan spoke in a low tone. “You’re ex-military.”  
  
“You’re just as much of a bloodsucker as the rest of them.”  
  
“If I was such, I’d have no self control and would be drinking you right now.”  
  
Anderson bridled. “Don’t try to fucking tell me about self-control.”  
  
“Why? Because you’re a sniper?”  
  
“Damn right I am. And a damn good one at that. I spent time in Afghanistan after 9/11. Led a company of a hundred and two guys. Woulda been a perfect run if not for the goddamned IEDs.” His eyes clouded for a moment, remembering something. “Point is, I know how to handle myself and my people. This ain’t shit.”  
  
“We have something in common, then.” Quinlan was growling now. “I have also commanded military forces. Against the Saxons, the Goths, Islamic invaders to Europe. I have played sides between the great houses of England and France, and walked the winter wastes around Stalingrad while both Axis and Allied forces froze to death in the snow. At the height of my career _fifty thousand_ men were under my command in the Roman Legion. So I, too, can assure you that I know how to handle myself… and my people.”  
  
Anderson’s bloodbeat flickered the tiniest bit.  
  
“I think you should go get your things, soldier,” Quinlan said softly.  
  
Finally shaken, the sniper marched out.  
  
  
________________________________  
  
  
  
I waited until Anderson was clear of the lobby before I joined Quinlan in the doorway. Together, we watched the new recruits load in. I felt like complete shit. I was the alternating hot and cold of a toddler playing with faucet spigots. My nose was running. I dabbed at it with the tattered sleeve of my jacket as I leaned heavily on the doorframe. “That went better than expected.”  
  
“They do not appear to be stupid people.”  
  
“Well yes, that.” I rubbed my throbbing temples. “But what I meant was you cowing Anderson. That was quite the speech.”  
  
“He’s a soldier. He understands hierarchy and is accustomed to taking orders.”  
  
“You do like to give orders.”  
  
He looked down at me. His flat expression warmed. A flush of heat struck up my neck to blaze forth from my already feverish face. I looked away. The twins were bringing in backpacks and cardboard boxes. Behind them, the armored car driver lugged in a wooden crate. Gus’s former-KO sat on the floor near the elevator, bloodied head in his hands. I could hear Gus outside, giving orders to Anderson in the best gangster fashion possible. The directives were bookended almost exclusively by “yo.”  
  
I said softly, “I’m not a hundred percent about this.”  
  
Quinlan entered my mind to speak. The light tapping of the words at the base of the skull made me reel a little. _To be honest, neither am I. But as soon as they saw you and the Hunters come from the building, our security was compromised. The only other option is to kill them. A waste. We need to grow our ranks, not thin them._  
  
“And you expect after a good night’s sleep and a wash, they’ll be ready to behave.”  
  
He smiled as much as his lips would allow. _It worked with you._  
  
A tired smirk was all I could manage. The idea of handling new people made me weary. I motioned for Quinlan to come near. He lowered his head so I could speak privately. My lips brushed his earlobe. “I suppose,” I whispered, “if it doesn’t work out, we can just kill them anyway, right?”  
  
He straightened, a funny look on his face.  
  
“What? I’m practical, remember?” A shiver shook me. “I’m also cold as hell. I’m going upstairs.”  
  
_Wait._  
  
Quinlan reached into one of the carriers on his vest and pulled out a small white bottle. _Take these. Gus found them while we were out. He thought they would help you._  
  
I squinted at the label: Clindamycin, an antibiotic. A quick peek showed a full bottle. Perhaps twenty small white possibilities of healing rattled inside. “Gus found these? You mean he mugged some poor sick bastard.”  
  
Quinlan shook his head. _The woman was already dead._  
  
“So he rolled a dead body.”  
  
_Will they help you?_  
  
As I walked to the elevator, I noted the time on my watch and dry swallowed a capsule.  
  
_I take that as a yes._  
  
A small movement nearby caught my eye; the ambo driver. Still seated by the wall, he was now leaning on one arm, watching us intently despite his swollen eyes. Another chill zinged up my spine. I said, “Nosy, much?”  
  
The man shied away.  
  
In the elevator, Quinlan took my hand and curled my fingers around the pill bottle. _I just want you to be well._  
  
I almost told him, right there. The sticky truth caught the words before they tumbled off my tongue. Swallowing hard, I told him, “I need to go. If I don’t lie down, I’m going to fall down.”  
  
He stepped back. I gave him a sad, shaky smile, then dragged the elevator gate closed and pressed Up.  
  
  
  
______________________

  
The twin with the slightly shorter hair was afraid. She followed so closely behind that as Gus showed her where to place her gear, her boots clipped his heels. He stopped short, annoyed. “Watch yourself, girl. It’s too soon to be all up in my shit.”  
  
“Sorry,” she said. He noticed her worried glance towards where Quinlan stood in the office doorway. Motherfucker hadn’t moved a muscle for the last ten minutes. Head slightly tilted, feet planted and not breathing, the vampire was utterly still. Only his eyes showed life; the lobby light gleamed on their moisture as they tracked the group’s movements in and out.    
  
The girl asked, “He a vampire?”  
  
“Kind of.” Gus realized she was kind of cute underneath the layer of grime coating her face.  
  
“But you’re not.”  
  
He held out his tan, tattooed arms then lifted his hat. “Brown as a bean and got all my hair.” He held back from adding, Got all my junk, too.  
  
The young woman gave Quinlan another concerned look. “Does he always do that? Stand so still?”  
  
“Sometimes.”  
  
“And you’re not afraid of him?”  
  
“He and his crew rescued me. I’d have been drinking blood margaritas weeks ago if it wasn’t for Old Man Statue over there.”  
  
“So you’re here by choice?”  
  
“Fuck yeah. Would you turn down living in a swank place like this?” Gus pushed bags and boxes with his foot to clear more floor space. “Put your crap down and don’t worry about him. What’s in that, anyway?”  
  
She opened the lid of her blue tote. Paper and plastic sealed packs were piled inside. “Medical supplies. My sister and I are nurses. We were hiding out in Mt. Sinai hospital before Anderson found us.”  
  
“So you’re with him by choice?”  
  
“Pretty much. He knows how to survive. It’s not like we had a lot of options.”  
  
“Till now.”  
  
She looked around, touching the dark wallpaper with dirty fingertips. “Right,” she said. “Till now.”  
  
Gus was suddenly very aware of how the lobby lights played through the curly cloud of her hair. _Definitely_ cute. “What’s your name again?”  
  
“Emille.”  Her smile was shy and interested.  
  
“C’mon, then, Emille. Let’s get you all loaded and settled in.” As her gently guided her outside by the upper arm, he held back from adding: And up in my shit. As much as you want.  
  
  
  
__________________________  
  
  
  
  
  
In the office doorway, time had ceased for Quinlan.  
  
Although his eyes tracked the new humans – a proper crew now – his mind was focused on only one: HotShot. Over and over, he returned to her words: If it didn’t work out, kill them. Indeed, they could… and Quinlan would, if necessary.  It was the way. There would not be waste. They would become livestock and converted to expendable _strigoi_ pawns.  
  
Outside, a vehicle started up with a roar. Faint shrieks floated into the high band of his hearing. Far away, but not for long. The city was rotten with vampires now.  
  
They were running out of time.  
  
He stirred. The woman flanking Gus let out a _yip!_ and clutched at the Sun Hunter who did nothing to shake her off.  
  
Quinlan’s eyes lingered on the girl before he ghosted into the unlit office. The outlines of the furniture appeared to him faintly limned in gray. A scarlet wash of dissipating heat marked where Gus had sat on the sofa. Quinlan allowed himself to lie down in an unusual acknowledgement of his crushing weariness. A low groan seeped from between his lips. He would not sleep – he rarely did – but he would take rest in hopes of stilling the riot in his head.  
  
The knot of his thoughts tangled from behind his eyes to the root of his stinger.  
  
He tried to focus on the matters at hand. Gus was loudly hustling the new ones inside. They were compliant. Good. This new flexibility would be put to work post-haste. The next target sites could be cleared while HotShot and Gus went to the pawnbroker’s shop to find out what he knew. The Sapphires were ready to deploy. Those thugs could clean out their home territory and when done, be brought over the river to assist in Manhattan.  
  
Still too small to thwart the epidemic, but large enough to buy him time.  
  
As if two thousand years hadn’t already been enough.  
  
He rubbed at his eyes and lay there with hands over face, watching the moirés shimmer along the insides of his lids.  
  
The world was speeding up. For hundreds of years, events had moved at a snail’s pace. The slow disease of secret influence could not compete with the metastatic spread of the Master’s uncontrolled evil.  
  
This needed to be over. It had gone on much too long.  
  
A circus of clanking heralded the departure of the loaded elevator. The sense of bustle in the lobby stilled, silence stealing in, only to be broken by the squeal of talons cutting across the lobby windows. He would need a Hunter posted at this level. Brow furrowed, he called to one. While he waited, the slow burn of his agitation ate at his resolve.  
  
Find the Master. Hunt it down. And when he had it cornered, it would discover he _had_ learned from his mistakes. There would not be another Tortosa.  
  
Except…  
  
On the couch in the dark office, Quinlan felt the human in him resist, and knew.  
  
The hesitation was already there.  
  
He was not yet ready to leave the world behind.  
  
Because of a woman.  
  
Frustrated, he scrubbed at his face. A tempest of emotions came ripping. Such a poor reason. So… human. He felt the Ancients’ ever-scanning awareness skitter across him, clinging to his flinching thoughts with the hooked legs of biting insects. He was pinched and stung for his folly, yet when their minds passed on to gnaw at the carrion of the larger world, Quinlan went right back to what he’d been pondering.  
  
Hotshot was a paradox. Soft yet hard, warm yet cold, weak yet strong. His fascination was a thirst in and of itself.  He tried to imagine her doing domestic things. Impossible. All he could conjure was an image of her driving, left hand gripping the wheel, right restlessly tapping the gear shift, eyes tucked under her brow in high speed concentration.  
  
She was alone right now, up in her apartment. He was not worried. Any woman who would put her lips to his ear and whisper of killing with a lover’s voice would be able to defend herself in the exceedingly rare event their building was invaded.  
  
But his wife, so long ago… she had not been so able.  
  
More emotions came, bitter needles pricking the corners of his eyes.  
  
What happened had been his fault. He had left her alone. Had thought nothing of it, really. The slaver had delivered to him a responsible, well-behaved woman good with running a home. His investment bore fruit in the form of mended clothes, clean floors and a fully stocked larder which he had never been able to quite convince her was unneeded. Her dark, sharp eyes, however much she lowered them in his presence, were duty-bound and serious. When the legate from the next province sent a runner requesting the great Quintus Sertorius’ advice in building a barracks hall, he had undertaken the two week journey without a second thought.  
  
Quinlan twisted his body in an effort to choke off the memories. The movement caused his tactical vest to ride up, exposing a white slice of flesh at the waistband of his trousers. Bisecting this flesh was a ragged gray scar that ran from the blade of his hip to his opposite shoulder. His fingers found the trough and traced it, as they had done hundreds of times before.  
  
The memories continued their playback towards the inexorable finale.  
  
Returning from his consult, he’d slipped into the house, carrying a bulky bundle. Wrapped inside the fine linen was a new doll to replace the child’s tatty, yarn-bound one. The cloth was for his wife to finally make herself a proper lady’s dress. He was proud of his gifts, but not so proud as to make noise. The sky was heavy with night. They would be sleeping.  
  
Except they weren’t.  
  
The attack took him by surprise. First, the little one came charging, glowing golden in his heat vision, an ingot of nascent thirst. The impact knocked him sprawling. The linen flew out of his hands and became an ersatz net, entangling the snarling child. Quinlan had just enough time to gain his feet before his wife, crouching on the heavy wooden cupboard, compressed herself and sprang. Horrified denial paralyzed him. He did not react in time.  Her newly-minted vampire talon opened up his torso with the sound of a butcher’s knife. They’d gone down in the pink puddle of his blood, whipping it to a stiff froth as they struggled.  
  
He sank his fingers into the scar and pressed.  
  
Time erased nothing. Not scars, nor memories, nor pain.  
  
_Strigoi_ still scraped outside. He could hear them trying to climb the building. They made meaty thumps when they hit the sidewalk.  
  
Quinlan closed his eyes. He still had them closed when the Hunter arrived. It brought with it the miasma of the Ancients, their psychic stench coiling out from within its hood. He layered a mud of calm over his wounded emotions while giving the Hunter its orders. Under the muck, he waited until the Hunter was fully engaged in exterminating the gibbering horde on the sidewalk. The sense of being monitored vanished. Thin peace drifted down like snow. He stopped pressing on his scar and sat up.  
  
There would be no more hesitation.  
  
No more mistakes.  
  
A warm feeling bloomed in his chest. Its spreading petals pushed away the dirt of bad memories. As the feeling unfurled to reveal a delicate center, Quinlan finally understood what was happening.  
  
  
__________________________________  
  
  
  
I could have sworn I heard a giggle out in the hallway.  
  
Too concerned to ignore it, I dragged myself out of the bed and peered through the peephole. Gus, convex, and a girl to the side – one of the twins – curved to a sliver. I opened the door before Gus could knock.  
  
“Make it fast, Gus. I’m dead.”  
  
The twin took one look at me and went pale. She slid behind Gus, her hand clutching his upper arm. He tossed a look over his shoulder and dismissed her to the elevator.  
  
I watched her go. “And her name is?”  
  
“Emille.”  
  
“That didn’t take long,” I told him.  
  
“Gusto Elizalde knows a good thing when he sees one.” His smugness filled the hallway.  
  
I braced myself between door handle and jamb. “Operator. What do you want? I’m not gonna make it if I don’t get some rest.”  
  
He toyed with his collar, his substitute for when he did not have his hat to pull. “I wanted to warn you. About Anderson.”  
  
“And the next headline in News of the Obvious is?”  
  
“No, no, man, listen. Anderson _vibes_. Like, if I was in a room with Alfonso Creem and him, I’d go sit next to Creem. No questions asked. Anderson’s like, got a dent in his head. In the joint, we had this rule – you never messed with the dude with a dent in his head. Those fuckers were always crazy, like dogs that been raised bad. Chill one moment, ripping your face off the next.”  
  
“And Quinlan let him in.”  
  
“That’s the thing. I know he must know what he’s doing, but shit– I’m just worried. Especially about you.”  
  
I coughed into my hand and hauled back snot. “Thanks for the warning.”  
  
He made a move to hug me. I stopped him by giving my my shoulder. “Close enough, _amigo_. I’m probably contagious. This is something you _can_ catch, you know.”  
  
In the periphery of my vision, I saw Emille stiffen, her form interrupting the grid of the elevator in a sudden jerk.  
  
Gus returned to a safe distance.  
  
I stepped back and began to close the door. “Go. Your new girlfriend is waiting.”  
  
“She ain’t my–“  
  
“Go. And tell her all I have is a cold, for God’s sake.” I clicked the door shut in his face.  
  
I hoped they wouldn’t be too noisy. Gus’ unit was directly underneath mine, after all.

 

  
_______________

  
There was a woman screaming a threnody to the lost world somewhere in Central Park. Shivering, I unrolled myself to look at the clock: 3:00am. At 3:03am, her song wound up so tight it snapped. A _strigoi_ shrieked a brief encore. Ringing silence filled the space left by their voices as I elbowed myself out of the damp trench in the sheets.  
  
Thirst pounded. As I reached for the water glass on the bedside table, I wondered if this was what it felt like for the vampires. If so, there was no wonder why they were in such a constant panic to drink.  
  
The cold water set my teeth to chattering. A concussion of painful overtones exploded in the bell tower of my head. I thumped the glass back down on the side table. The water left in it distorted the straight lines of the bedroom into a series of fluid arcs. I stared at the bent images, listless and shivering.  
  
A little noise and then a focal point of heat manifested behind me.  
  
He said: “You left your door unlocked again.”  
  
“Fuck you, Quinlan.” I made to drag the blanket up over my head. It was now the heaviest blanket in the world. I ran out of energy, dropping my hand to the bed with a thud. “I’m not exactly at my best, if you hadn’t noticed.”  
  
I heard him unholstering weapons and setting them on the nightstand. The bed sank as he sat. My body slid backwards. The curve of his hip locked home neatly into the small of my back.  
  
“Do not be cross.” The bed shifted again. I felt my hair, fanned across my pillow, being gently rearranged. My nerves were restless; each time he touched me, they turned into glowing wires which itched and begged to be stroked further. I turned over, underneath his hand.  
  
In the dim light, he was a solemn owl.  
  
“I’m a fucking mess,” I said.  
  
He acknowledged my statement with a slow blink. His hand dropped to my shoulder, poking out from under the blanket, thumb stroking the turned edge of the t-shirt's cap sleeve. More wires sparked to life. I felt him lean into me a little.  
  
Oh god, I thought.  
  
The shivering started up again.  
  
Quinlan made a question with the wrinkles of his brow.  
  
“Please… another blanket.” I was unable to say more. My brain was shorting out from the influx the nerve explosions generated by his gently moving fingers. Fragments of sentences crumbled from my quivering lips. “I’m so cold, I cuh-, cuh-, can’t get warm…”  
  
He stood. The recoil rolled me over onto my face. I remained in that position, pathetic, at the mercy of my struggling body which, at that moment, had no other purpose than to shiver.  
  
I sensed him making a circuit of the room. There was a brief pause, then busy noise. Each was a mystery to my ringing ears. I heard thuds and clunks, the parting teeth of zippers. A susurrus of sliding. I hoped he had found another duvet in some kind of storage bag. My glowing, zinging nerves anticipated the comforting weight and, if I could be so lucky, the dip of the mattress with his muscular hip fitting the curve of my spine again.  
  
It was good I had my face pressed into the pillow. When he slid into the bed, I most certainly would have screamed had my mouth been free.  
  
  
  
  
___________________________________  
  
  
  
Quinlan’s first thought was, “How long has it been?”  
  
His second was, “I cannot do this to her.”  
  
As he settled carefully along his outstretched arm, he tucked his knees up behind hers. Everything felt hyper-real. The threads and wrinkles in the sheet could be counted against the map of sensitive scars cross-hatching his bare torso. It was a mortal feeling and it humbled him.  
  
A whimper escaped her.  
  
_Try to relax._  
  
She was wearing a clean t-shirt he assumed she’d scavenged from the apartment. It was made from that fashionable, whisper-thin fabric women of these times favored. It was not very long. When he used his arm to pull her trembling body to his, his hand brushed bare thighs and the curve of her belly. Parts of him jolted. He was glad he’d left his trousers on.  
  
“You’re so warm,” she whispered.  
  
_It will help you._  
  
Her rigidity slackened as the furnace of his metabolism melted her shivers. She found his hand and pulled his arm against her chest. Their fingers intertwined. A flutter at his wrist told him her heart was directly beneath. The pebbles of her spine, pressing against his chest and abdomen, set off a battery of strange sensations.  All his body systems were tied to this axis. Predictably, his stinger began to throb.  
  
“I can feel that,” she said.  
  
_That is my heartbeat,_ Quinlan, who never lied, lied.  
  
“No, it’s not.”  
  
He pressed his nose into her hair. _You did warn me once not to lie to you._  
  
The scent of her was bitter with fever. Intense, but a far cry from the sepia odor of demise. A good thing, that. This close, the smell of death would have automatically loosed his stinger from its moorings. It was a familiar reflex. Over the ages, it had converted hundreds of battlefield casualties into battlefield mortalities.  
  
He found the rope of her throat irresistible. Her bloodbeat was strongest there, rushing just under the thin vellum of her skin. To listen, he placed his long, stiff lips against the pulse and closed his eyes.  
  
She pulled his arm a little tighter to her chest and sank her rump deep into the cup of his hips.  
  
He knew then he could have her however he wished.  
  
A winter river tumbled in her veins. Such a strange, difficult bloodbeat. Almost monochromatic in its thin sameness. It was impossible not to purr. He opened his mouth slightly. The tips of his pointed teeth made a thin, red track along the rolling landscape of her throat. She responded with a faint moan, arching. They always did at this point, having somehow convinced themselves that it would not hurt.  
  
He knew differently.  
  
He pulled away. His stinger rewarded him with a painful buck in his chest.  
  
_I need to know what is wrong with you._  
  
A surge of emotion stiffened her but she said nothing.  
  
_I need to know._  
  
“It won’t make any difference.”  
  
_What good is it doing to hide whatever is wrong? You are ill in a way I understand and then in a way I do not. The latter I have been hearing in you for weeks. Why not tell me what it is so we may get you the proper care?_  
  
Fluid crackled in her lungs as she sighed. Her breath tickled his hand. “Because there’s no such thing as proper care for this any more.”  
  
They lay there, listening to small explosions somewhere in downtown Manhattan.  
  
_So what can I do?_  
  
“Just let it be. I’ll get better. I always have.” She stifled a cough. “And stay with me.”  
  
He kissed her gently below her ear. _I will._  
  
She readjusted her position, thighs rubbing against his own. An intense ache shot from his stinger down into other places. A thought, a terrible, red-eyed leviathan surfaced: What if he did taste her? Could he know her secret then?  
  
Pressure built under his tongue.  
  
The smallest drink would allow him to do other things, too.  
  
It took a great deal of effort to keep his stinger in his mouth.  
  
While he fought with his desire, HotShot drifted off to sleep. Quinlan lay with his arm between her breasts and agonized.  
  
It had been so long.  
  
He pulled his chin down, pressing his forehead against the back of her skull. The position forcibly kept the juddering stinger in its socket. It was in these moments that the organ seemed more a parasite than a part of him.  
  
It was also in these same moments that he felt great resentment over what he was.  
  
So many nights he’d lain next to the Berber girl with his chin similarly tucked. So many nights debating, measuring time in the moonbeams filtering through the dark cloud of her hair. Then: too late. Her blood would forever be mystery. Over the centuries, he had decided it had been for the best. He did not relish how he had been before his military retirement. The gladiator pits had been thick with blood and violence, drawing women excited by death and curious about the strange. Fascinated by his inhuman biology until his needs overwhelmed them, they would then run naked or screaming or both from his cell. The barracks’ betting pools had done fierce business with his lust. The women who stayed took on near-legendary status with their sisters. The sunrise would find them bruised at the throat, dresses rusted with blood, limping home to husbands who could not understand why their wives were never quite the same. His experiences in the Legion were magnifications of the fighting ring. Thirst and flesh and release but never meaning. Base monotony.  
  
Until the slave girl.  
  
He had felt love, and the fierce protectiveness which accompanied it. Harming her would be unforgivable. The drink, however gently done, would be harm. The innocent trust which she placed in him ensured his tongue stayed flat over his stinger. He would not – could not – reveal that part of him to her. They had found less barbaric ways to know and love each other.  
  
But HotShot was not gentle, nor was she innocent. She was capable, clever and crude. Not some panting slut to be used and discarded, nor a child-woman to be protected and sheltered. A paradoxical enigma, unrepentant in her self-contradiction. In some ways, like him. Gus certainly seemed to think so.  
  
He opened his eyes and measured time in a moonbeam draping them.  
  
The tension in his throat abated as a rare relaxation stole over Quinlan. He repositioned his head on the pillow, pushed his hips a little harder into HotShot’s rear, and did his best to forgive himself for what he was.  
  
Then he, too, slept.  
  
  
  
  
_______________________  
  
  
  
It was some time in the morning. Gray light sliced at an angle through an unsettled slat in the blinds.  
  
He was gone.  
  
Rolling over, I ran my hand over the sheet. Cold. Left a while ago, then, probably before sunrise.  
  
My fever had broken.  
  
I needed a shower. My skull was still full of wet newspaper, but the splitting headache was gone. I lay face down where he had been, realizing I could not catch any scent of him thanks to my congested nose. Still, there was something to occupying the same spot, as if that would fill the void of his absence.  
  
I still felt too crappy to smile.  
  
Luck was with me. Whatever I’d caught was susceptible to the power of the antibiotics. Gummy and slow, I got up. Took my next dose of medicine, thought about it for a minute, then added a second capsule. Forced myself to wash my sticky face. At the bathroom sink, the mirror told me I was pale enough to disappear into the marble. Only my hair would give me away.  
  
The last time I’d looked like this, I’d spent a month in the hospital shepherding a flock of IV trees and bleating vitals monitors.  
  
I wondered if I would find him on the fourteenth floor. I was ready to go searching until I remembered his warning about the Hunter in the stairwell. Any bloodbeat. So much for that, then. I dragged my carcass to the kitchen, instead. In the freezer, a can of frozen orange juice concentrate promised it wasn’t that expired. The juice was sour and weak but better than nothing. I was sitting at the counter, nursing a glass when there was a firm rap on my door.  
  
Gus called, “Yo, _amiga_ , you up?”  
  
I let him in. Drooping back to where my glass sat sweating on the counter, I asked, “Why are you here? It’s so early.”  
  
Gus, unlike me, was bright and excited. “We got orders, man. Joint’s been jumping since nine. Most of the new crew are already out clearing. Q’s got plans, it seems. I had to beg him to let you sleep. I don’t know what’s up; he’s in some kind of a mood. I never seen him like this.”  
  
I bet you haven’t, I thought.  
  
“You feeling better?”  
  
I swizzled yellow scum in my glass. “Yeah. I’ll be okay, I think. Those meds– they’re working.” I pushed the pitcher towards him.  “Here, help me drink this swill. It tastes horrible but we need the vitamin C. The rest of the world can get scurvy. I’d prefer we don’t.”  
  
Gus took a sip, screwing up his face. “Ugh. The joint served better than this.”  
  
I counted to three then tossed back the rest of mine. It went down hard but I could feel my body desperately sucking up the nutrients. I poured another half-glass and chugged it. “You said we have orders? As in you and me?”  
  
Nodding, Gus said, “Mr. Q wants us to case this spot up in Harlem. I’ll tell you why on the way there.”  
  
I put my head in my hands. “I _do not_ feel up for this.”  
  
“Then you can take that up with him, man. Either way, _amiga_ , we gotta get downstairs soon. Q’s not putting up with any delays today. Like I said: mood.”  
  
“Fine.” I heaved myself off the stool and headed to the bedroom to dress. At least it was brightening outside. The gray light of earlier now sported a gilded tone. As long as we stayed out of dark buildings, we would be safe from any vampire attacks. I, personally, had no intention of getting out of the car at all.  
  
There was a pile of clothes stacked neatly on the chair in the bedroom. They had not been there when I’d gone to bed. Curious, I sifted through them. An aggregation of pockets, zippers, and clips. Gloves with hard knuckles. A jacket with a hood. The black clothes of a Hunter, albeit a small one. There was also a black knife with a wicked, seven inch blade and a curved grip.  
  
I wondered at these new gifts.  
  
I wondered at myself in the mirror when I was dressed.  
  
“Would you hurry up?” Gus hollered from the living room. “Stop being a fucking girl!”  
  
He started in alarm when I came out, zipped and buckled and holstered. The expression on his face was comical. My laughter was congested and left me dizzy.  
  
“Is it that bad?” I asked him.  
  
“It’s creepy, _amiga_ ,” he replied. “For fuck’s sake, put the hood down.”  
  
I couldn’t help be agree with him. It _was_ a little creepy.  
  
The clanging elevator had mirrors on three sides. As we headed downstairs, I couldn’t help but peer at my reflection, struck by the total disappearance of the ragged urchin visage I’d been sporting as of late. I imagined Quinlan would approve.  
  
“You’re being a total girl,” Gus muttered.  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
“I see you checking yourself out.” Gus clucked his tongue. “Guess it doesn’t matter what the clothes are, you give a _chica_ a new outfit and every chance she gets, she’s gonna look at herself.”  
  
“Oh, and this coming from the guy who had to have his shirt pressed because God forbid he met Creem with wrinkles.” I aimed a mock kick at his shin. “Dick.”  
  
_“Cabróna.”_ He threw faux-elbows at my head.  
  
Giggling and parrying like siblings, we entered the garage. I’d just delivered a solid jab to his upper arm with one of the hard-knuckled gloves when Gus pulled up short. His breath left him in a long hiss. “Oh, shit.”  
  
Anderson was sitting in the Tesla, smoking a cigarette. He said, “How do you start this fuckin’ thing?”  
  
We both froze, staring.  
  
“Get out,” I said in a flat voice.  
  
“I ain’t hurting nothing,” Anderson replied, tapping ash into my center console. “Just fuckin sittin’ in this stupid thing, trying to figure out how to turn the fucker on.”  
  
Gus turned back towards the door. _“Amiga,_ I’ll go get Q–“  
  
“No.” I held up my hand. “I’ll handle this. Go outside. I’ll meet you on the street.”  
  
_“Amiga,_ I ain’t gonna leave–“  
  
I clenched my teeth. If Gus stayed, I knew it would turn into a brawl. “Just go, Gus.”  
  
The eye promises Gus made to Anderson were full of fists. Anderson answered them with a look of finely-crafted shittiness. The dent hiding beneath his steel-gray hairline cast a boomerang’s shadow across his left temple.  
  
My footsteps echoed lightly on the concrete as I approached. Coils of blue smoke made snake nests in the Tesla’s interior. I repeated myself. “Get out of the car.”  
  
He scratched at the dent. “How ‘bout I don’t.”  
  
“How ‘bout you do? I’m sure you don’t want any trouble.”  
  
One coarse hand circumnavigated the steering wheel. Even though he wasn’t touching me, I felt violated. He said, “I’m sure you don’t either. So how about you just fuck right the fuck off and let me enjoy my fuckin’ smoke in peace.”  
  
“Anderson, come on. Just get out of the car.”  
  
The slowly circling hand stopped, gripped. The steering column creaked as he pulled himself upright. “What’s it to you?”  
  
I pointed to my left. “You want to sit and smoke? Go in the Expedition over there. It reeks of ten years worth of vampires. A little _Eau de Marlboro_ might actually help.”  
  
“I’m fine where I’m at.” He tugged a long ash out of the cigarette and added another smoke snake to the nest.  
  
Something snapped in me. I still felt like shit and wasn’t in the mood for any more. I didn’t want to be up, or on a mission, or in a power struggle some colossal douchebag. Where I wanted to be was back in bed, with Quinlan curled around me.  
  
I drew.  
  
The sniper piled out of the front seat like a sand crab exploding from its burrow. He made a grab at the gun barrel but his cramped emergence made him miss. I backed up, trying to quickly calculate how many steps I could take before I hit the wall. My calculation was off. The wall said hello to my heels and I staggered. Anderson’s next grab was successful. He wrenched the 9mm painfully from my grip. I had just enough time to close my hand around the hilt of my new knife before he trapped me between the chute of his meaty forearms.  
  
“Not such a hot shot now, are you?” he sneered.  
  
“Back off, motherfucker.”  
  
The muscles in his shoulders bunched. “You don’t scare me. I take shits bigger than you.”  
  
“I’m sure you do.”  
  
“We’re going to have a problem, you and me, aren’t we?”  
  
“We don’t have to, Anderson.” I tried to soften my tone. “Just stay out of my car and I’ll stay out of your way. Simple.”  
  
“Oh, I see how it is now.” He leaned in. The scent of too many cigarettes and not enough showering clapped me over the face. “Your car. I get it. I know how much one of them electric shitboxes cost. You’re one of them rich bitches. Used to getting everything you want, right? Probably never had a hard day in your life till now. You don’t have any fuckin’ idea what it’s like. Well, I’ll tell you like I told your freak vampire boss, this ain’t shit. I’m gonna survive. And I won’t do it by fuckin’ hanging on to things that used to mean something in the world before.”  
  
While he dressed me down, I managed to free the knife from its sheath. I pressed the razor point of it to his pants where his leg joined his body. There was a pop! as the tip pierced the fabric. I eased off on the pressure. I didn’t want to stab him – yet. Anderson looked down in wonderment, then looked back up at me. “The fuck.”  
  
“Anderson.” I took a deep breath. Tried to channel some of Gus’ bravado and Quinlan’s cool reserve. “Put my gun on the floor and back off. You want to be a bad ass? Do it out there, killing vamps. We’re on the same goddamn side. Just back off. Or you’ll have way worse than this knife to deal with.”  
  
Anderson snorted but began to comply. As he retreated, he bared his square teeth at me. “You think I’m worried about your little _cholo_ rooster boyfriend? I’ll break him in half.”  
  
“Keep going.”  
  
His bristling rage bored into my breastbone. “I’d just as soon stake you as I would one of them bloodsucking shitheads.”  
  
“Farther.”  
  
The crashbar of the interior door clunked as Anderson’s back struck it. I forced myself to move at a leisurely pace as I picked up my gun on my way towards the Tesla. Our eyes remained locked as I unplugged the car by feel then slid into the driver’s seat.  
  
“Don’t fuck with me, Anderson,” I called right before I shut the door.  
  
“I ain’t worried!” he bellowed back. “About you or your Mex boyfriend!”  
  
I was shaking so hard I could barely swipe the touchscreen to bring the car to life. Anderson’s florid face glared in the rear view mirror as I pulled away, coughing out my panic into the smoky interior of the car. I wanted to scream and cry at the same time. He was right. He didn’t need to worry about me, or Gus.  
  
The one he needed to worry about was Quinlan.


End file.
